Safe House - Definitions of Home
by Sweet Neverwhere
Summary: A mission, an unexpected reunion, and a collapsing building followed by new promises made.
1. Safe House

**This is basically copypaste from a tumblr rp between reventum(me) and brooklynrooted(RonnieSilverlake on Ao3). It's been cleaned up and edited for typos and glaring gramatical errors, but essentially it's how it happened. Every line break indicates a new post (thus, a perspective change). Posted with her permission because FFN doesn't have the co-author option.**  
 **This was started on May 26th, 2014 and is set around that time, about two months after the events of Cap2.**

 **(Also, side note for those waiting for me to update Bitter March: I'm really sorry, but it doesn't look like it's happening.)**

* * *

There were plenty of places HYDRA agents used as dead drop and safe house locations, plenty of supposedly abandoned buildings that the general populace just walked right on by without knowing their true purpose. That creepy top floor apartment that seemed empty but occasionally voices or footsteps could be heard from; that abandoned warehouse that even the most determined vandal couldn't get access to; a boarded up shop that never went up for sale despite the complaints it gathered. Dead drops, safehouses. Places for agents to hole up and wait or drop off valuable intel for their handlers. Now that the agents were scattered, however, and the handlers were no more, what use were they?

Probably more useful than most thought, provided you knew how to get into them. Most had sophisticated locking mechanisms that required either a code or a keycard to open. The one he had chosen to break into, however, was a grimy top floor bedsit with little more than a padlock that someone had tried to take bolt-cutters to - with no luck, obviously.

In response to this…minor setback, Bucky had merely left the door swinging half-off it's hinges - though he did try to close it as haphazardly as he could behind him. The insides of the apartment - and he used that word very loosely - smelled worse than he did, and he hadn't had more than a basic wash in over a month. Wrinkling his nose at the offensive odour of damp and mould and who knows what else, he shoved his hands into the battered coat he was wearing. He wasn't sure he wanted to touch anything in the place, let alone stop the night.

Still pulling a face, he entered the grimy little bathroom and hesitating to touch the filthy faucet for a moment, tested for running water. He wasn't surprised to learn there wasn't any. With an annoyed grunt, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror, taking in the growing beard he'd have to attack with a knife again. But when his attention was drawn to the hair hanging in greasy strands around his face, it was instead pulled to the sound of the door moving and the floorboards creaking outside. So much for being alone.

* * *

 _Are you in_? Two taps on the earpiece. The floor squeaked no matter how cautious Steve was, and frankly, he wondered what exactly he was doing here. Not that he wasn't enthusiastic about breaking into old HYDRA safehouses and potentially capturing some of their agents (he was _more than enthusiastic_ , in fact), but this kind of thing seemed to be what Natasha was much better suited for. Steve preferred face-to-face fights, not creeping after people in shadows. Well, there would probably be fighting soon enough, if anyone was here (and if their intel was correct, someone had to be). Steve wondered, while taking another step, whether there was any chance of finding someone important in a place like this; completely run-down and stinking. Surely their officials would be in better protected places, not somewhere that even Captain America, who notoriously lacked subtlety, could break into without a problem.

There seemed to be a bathroom of sorts, its door ajar, and there was a subtle movement that Steve rather sensed, instead of saw. There was a split second of contemplation, where he wondered if there was still a possibility of not having been noticed – but of course, that was a fool notion. He took yet another step into what could hardly be called living room, and –

… then froze into place, staring at the sliver of the man's face he could see from the cracked mirror. If there was a list of things he expected, this was the very last on it; he had been looking, of course, fruitlessly and with diminishing hope, between missions like this one – and then here he was, at a time when, for a change, Steve hadn't been thinking of him at all.

He didn't seem to be able to say anything at all, for some godforsaken reason. On the other hand, he didn't have a lot of illusions left either, about how many ways this could go, if Bucky still didn't remember anything. Steve took a deep breath, and tightened his grip on his shield, waiting for the other to make the first move, whatever it would be.

* * *

Bucky had gone completely still, unmoved from where he hovered by the sink but the difference in his posture was absolutely marked. He had been practically casual when he entered, now he was anything but. Every muscle, every fibre of his being was in use to keep him utterly unmoved. His gaze had slid to the door he'd left ajar and he took a single, slow step backwards out of the direct line of sight and adjusting his angle slightly so he could see through the crack along the hinges. The low light from the grimy, boarded-up windows didn't help visibility, all he could see was legs.

He shallowed his breathing, just listening to the footsteps and the way the owner moved across the floorboards. Heavy boots, Over 200 pounds, easily. Male. And given the fact there was now a smell in the air that was cleaner than the surroundings it suggested the man wasn't some opportunistic homeless bum looking for somewhere that wasn't a back alley or overpass. He probably wouldn't be scared off easily. _'Damn'_.

The footsteps had stopped and Bucky caught his own reflection, gaze flicking back towards the open door. He'd been spotted. So much for the element of surprise. His movements slow and deliberate as to cause as little noise as possible, he pulled out a pistol from where he had stashed it. The intruder didn't need to know it had already been emptied on an earlier excursion, he just wanted them to run so he could vanish in the opposite direction.

With a quick glance at the hinges of the door and mentally cursed when he realised that they were set so the door swung inwards, since when was he so sloppy? Bucky set his jaw and, with one swift and fluid movement swung around the door, raising his arm to point dead center at -

…Steve Roger's forehead. This time he froze for an entirely different reason, the snarl on his face dropping as recognition hit. He didn't relax his aim when his heart shuddered, nor did he let the tremble of shock ease his posture. He simply fell still and silent, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

* * *

Not enough time had passed for Steve to exhale and then draw another breath again, and there was a pistol pointing straight at him. In what felt to him like a painstakingly long minute, but was probably just a fragment of a second, he contemplated his chances of raising the shield in time to block a probable shot. ( _Two percent? Three? Fuck._ ) It was probably better to try to duck; he'd still be hit, but he had survived being shot by Bucky three times already, so as long as it wasn't a headshot, he'd probably survive. Not that being shot at was generally high on Steve's priority list – but what choice did he really have?

"Do we really have to do this again?" he tried, but, for the most part, he wasn't really expecting a response. Bucky had refused to actually respond to him last time, too.

On the other hand, after he'd shot Steve and beaten him to an inch of his life, he'd also jumped (or fallen?) after him, and pulled him out of the water. Steve only had vague recollections of that, second-long glimpses and impressions; a cold hand gripping his shoulder with what felt like more than human strength, a piercing gaze from behind locks of drenched dark hair. There had been nobody else nearby, that he was sure of. "If you really wanted to kill me, you would've done it last time."

The most painful thing about the bluff was that Bucky would have seen through it in a moment. This man, though? Steve had to try his luck. After this much time, after everything, the war, HYDRA, the ice, getting his best friend back only to learn he didn't actually get him back after all… did he really still have things to lose?

* * *

There was no point in pulling the trigger, even if that had been his intention in the first place. Bucky had been expecting a police officer or some unseasoned rookie army private with orders to clear out whatever leftover HYDRA bases they could find. In a small, idle part of his brain he had to wonder why they hadn't scouted this place out sooner and he figured it was too small and too unimportant. That didn't answer the more prominent question as to why Captain America had chosen this particular little hovel to flush instead of one of the more lavish safe houses. There was a small bubble of anger building somewhere in his subconscious but he wasn't entirely sure who it was aimed at yet.

He didn't respond to the question. He hadn't even blinked since locking eyes onto his target and the tremor that vibrated in his chest never reached his gun arm. The only movement Bucky made was the slow clenching and unclenching of metallic fingers at his side which was more a habit than anything else. He had deepened his breathing, slow and even rather than the shallow ones he had been taking.

The world had dropped away. There was no grimy little shithole around them, no malodorous atmosphere or creaky floorboards. They were still there, clogging his senses, but in that moment it was like a pinhole focus. Just him, the man in front of him, and the bluff that he had just spoken. It was almost ironic.

"If I really wanted to kill you," he began, his voice hoarse and broken from lack of use, "this gun would be loaded." Despite admitting that the clip was empty, Bucky still kept it aloft. It was, in a way, acting like a shield. A barrier to keep Steve at the distance he was, because he certainly didn't want him any closer.

* * *

There was a tiny, irrational part of Steve that felt like laughing. The situation was, frankly, nothing short of surreal; face to face with a HYDRA assassin, who also happened to be one of the most cherished people in Steve's life, in a run-down rathole filled with filth and more things broken than things whole, having an _empty gun_ pointed at his head. Well, presumably empty. It was better not to assume anything; the other could, by all means, just be waiting for him to lower his guard, and _then_ shoot him, to make sure he doesn't even think of jumping out of the way. It was a bitter feeling, to have to think this cautiously, but as of now, Bucky was enemy, and Steve had no intentions of relinquishing his hold on the shield. Quite the contrary, he gripped it just a little tighter, his shoulder tensing as he raised it a little, feeling sluggish and rigid.

He'd had so many things in mind to say when he finally found Bucky – and yet, now that they were right in front of each other, unexpectedly, nothing came to mind. It was stupid, and irritating, and most of all, it caused a desperate sort of feeling to tighten Steve's chest to a point where he felt like he could barely breathe. Selfish and shameful it might have been, there was a part of him, buried deep, that thought he would have gladly given up everything the serum had ever given him, if he could just have things go back to how they used to be in exchange.

(Although, then again, that wasn't a very good solution, either. The way things used to be, Bucky had always had to drag Steve out of trouble, and if there was a certain upside to having gained strength, it was not having to be a burden on others like that anymore.)

He took a step forward, tentatively. If they were going to have to circle each other, then so be it. This was a chance he had been waiting for for a long time; he wasn't going to let it go out the window. "Why isn't it, then?" he asked in a low voice. His stance was still defensive, in spite of having begun to close the distance. Of course, he could guess the answer as to why the gun was still pointed at him, even if empty; if it were anyone less experienced, or less ready to fight, than Steve, they might have tried to escape, and then think it good luck that they avoided getting shot at. On the other hand, Steve still wasn't sure whether the pistol really was unloaded – it seemed that Bucky was the one better at bluffing, but really, that was no big surprise.

He allowed himself a small, hesitant, barely noticeable smile. "If you don't want to kill me, then what?"

* * *

His thoughts were running too slowly. Normally he would be two or three steps ahead in situations like these but as of right now, Bucky was struggling to keep them moving. They dripped slowly, like molasses, and all he could do was react. He was running purely on adrenaline and force of will; working off of his fight or flight instincts that had, up until now, proved to be an effective plan. But that train of thought had become derailed when faced with an unknown variable. Steve was an immovable object and Bucky was lacking the energy- both physically and mentally - to go against him.

Subtly, he weighed the gun in his hand and tried to work out the amount of force he would have to throw it with. As quickly as that notion appeared in his head, he dismissed it as foolish. A sign he wasn't thinking clearly. If only the man would get out of the way of the damn front door. But even if Bucky ran, would he be chased?

Bucky moved on instinct when Steve stepped forward, moving slowly towards the boarded up windows. He didn't want to end up backing into the bathroom with no way out. He pursed his lips, angling himself away into a more defensive posture. "Ask the HYDRA agents at the last safe house." His reply was terse, his throat dry and scratchy. If his fuzzy, jumbled memories were anything to go by, this was the first (somewhat) civil conversation he had had in a long, long time. It was almost laughable when he considered the partner.

Steve was smiling at him. If he didn't know how to read the man's face he wouldn't have noticed - and the very fact that he _did_ know how to read his face caused him to frown. It was as natural as breathing - that was what alarmed him. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

* * *

He didn't miss the way Bucky's eyes darted from him to the door and then back; nor the way he was edging towards the window. If he needed proof that he really hadn't been bluffing, and he had no means of actually shooting him, well, there was the proof. Bucky may have been more than confused at this point, but Steve knew what it was like to be cornered. You lost the ability to think clearly – you did things you really didn't want to do otherwise. If Bucky felt threatened (and he clearly did, which Steve really couldn't help with how things currently were, even if it felt like a stab in the heart), he would harm Steve if he could, simply to get himself out of the situation. He would have already done so, if he had the means.

Steve forced his shoulders to loosen slightly; he'd been so tense, he only realized now that his muscles were going to seize up between his shoulder blades if he didn't relax a little bit. He didn't lower his guard; he was still fully alert, his eyes trained on the other's every single movement – but he did lower the shield slightly, as some sort of makeshift peace offering (and he could only hope it wouldn't come across as an insult; as if he was underestimating Bucky, or something like that – although, if Bucky still remembered their fight on the helicarrier, he'd know that Steve choosing not to fight was the farthest thing from an insult). "I don't want to fight you," he said in a low voice, forcing himself to sound as calm as possible. "I don't want to make you fight me, either," he added then, remembering the fact that he hadn't wanted to fight last time either, but it hadn't made a lot of difference. "If you want to leave," _fuck, Steve, are you an idiot?!_ he chastised himself, _are you honestly going to just let him go?_ "I won't stop you." Apparently, he **was** an idiot. He wanted to help Bucky – _god_ , he wanted it more than anything. But he couldn't help someone who did not want to be helped. It had to be Bucky who made the first move; Steve could only meet him in the middle. And if there was anything Steve swore on, other than doing anything and everything in his power to help, it was that he would not force Bucky's hand in this. There had been so many people already who had done just that to him – it was exactly what caused him to end up where he was right now. Being forced.

"If you want to leave, I'll make sure nobody else stops you, either," he added then, to show that he was being honest. It would have been foolish to assume Steve had come here either, even if Bucky hadn't caught sight of the earpiece hidden under a mop of blond hair he'd combed over his ear shell. And Bucky was no fool; neither was the Winter Soldier.

"But you don't _have to_ ," he finally finished, "and I'd really rather you stayed."

* * *

Bucky fought, tooth and nail, against the internal struggle to take another step backwards. He wasn't used to giving ground; he _took_ ground. He pushed and pushed until there was nothing to push against. You had to get out of his way or get mown down, that was how the Winter Soldier operated. But that wasn't him anymore, at least not how he _wanted_ to be. And once he had started to give ground, he found it was hard to stop. Back away, run off, go to ground and hope they don't follow. It was utterly pathetic and he hated himself for it, but he felt he had no choice.

But there was Steve, giving him a choice. Yet another thing he wasn't used to. The tremble in his chest finally reached his arm and the gun wavered as he watched the shield lower - not by much, but enough. His whole body twitched slightly, a flinch at the opportunity to run that he so desperately wanted to take. He let his arm drop, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he tried to compartmentalise and asses the situation.

The door was right there but to get to it he would have to pass the immovable object. And while Steve was a man of his word (and the logical part of his brain kept telling him such) when you have been fed nothing but lies and deceit for so long it became hard to distinguish fact from fiction. The man wouldn't be alone either, the earpiece he hadn't noticed before, ' _sloppy, so sloppy_ ,' and the way he clarified that no one else would stop him proved that. Bucky didn't know if his team would listen either. There was a strong nagging doubt that they just wouldn't let the Winter Soldier vanish.

His feet had rooted to the floor as that stubborn streak kicked in, a scowl darkening his features as he squared his shoulders and tossed the empty gun aside. His chest heaved, deep but rapid breaths taken as if he was steeling himself for an onslaught, fear and obstinance at war and threatening to tear him apart. But he was never a coward and he wouldn't let himself become one. "Why?" It wasn't really a question, it was a barked out demand. He wasn't even sure what he was asking. So many questions and not enough answers. There probably wasn't answers to half the tangled knot of questions in his head.

* * *

 _Why?_ Well, fuck. How was Steve supposed to answer _that_? There were just too many things to say, and none of them things Bucky would have understood, not with the way he was now. To start off with, which part was he asking about? Why Steve was letting him go, or why he wanted him to stay? Or was it about something else altogether?

Steve let out a small sigh, but resisted reaching up to rub at his cheek as he thought. It was usually an unconscious habit, but with how on edge Bucky was at the moment, he didn't want to give him an excuse to think Steve was reaching for a weapon or something, and just scram because of it. Now he was keeping both his hands at his sides, the shield barely covering his right hip, and certainly not anything above. Perhaps it was stupid, putting so much blind faith in things working out; in Bucky actually choosing to listen to him – but if so, then so be it; then Steve was stupid. He'd been told so before, he'd been told by none other than Bucky himself, back when he would continuously get frustrated with how many fights Steve had landed himself in. Fine, he was stupid. But he sure as hell was also loyal, and that was what mattered, didn't it?

He let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding in when Bucky finally threw the gun away. It meant he was given at least one chance to explain, to answer that actually inexplicable question, to _maybe_ make sure Bucky stayed this time, to maybe start putting things together, putting them _right_.

"I suppose… it's like an order."

He was a bit surprised himself at having had those words leave his mouth; but at the same time, he grasped them, like a drowning man would grasp onto a floating plank of wood in the middle of the ocean. Maybe this was a terrible idea, making such a horrifying comparison, but this way, maybe he could at least make Bucky actually understand the reasoning behind it. Natasha had told him – with a bit of prodding, of course, and not very eagerly, but ultimately, she had told him – how you were made to carry out your orders when they were given by the Red Room. What kind of punishment there would be if you didn't. How, after a while, even the thought of disobeying was as painful as the actual repercussions would have been. It was reminiscent enough of what Steve himself felt like.

"An order that I just _have to_ fulfill, no matter what," he continued in a somber voice full of conviction. "Because of everything about us that you don't remember, but I do. I can't fight against you, Buck… _literally can't_ – I can only fight _for_ you, because giving up on you would be worse than anything anyone else can do to me, _including you_."

* * *

Confusion, irritation, anger; all flashed over Bucky's face in the span of a few seconds. He wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting to hear as an answer to a question he couldn't define himself. For what it was worth, he could have asked what the meaning of life was, because right now that was about as close to a definition as he could get. There was so much ground to cover, so many puzzle pieces missing. And even the ones that he had didn't seem to fit properly. There was too much haze, too many rough edges and broken parts. And all of it was stained red.

Had his stomach been anything but empty, he would have felt a strong urge to bring it back up at the spinning vortex in his head. But he retained his composure, for the most part at least. He was still breathing perhaps a little too deeply, the adrenaline from the initial rush before fading as he stood still. He was strongly regretting not taking that offer to run simply because it meant he wouldn't be standing still.

He listened intently, though his gaze drifted elsewhere. It had fallen down, past the smooth edge of the shield at Steve's side and into a grimy nondescript corner; unfocused yet concentrated at the same time. He didn't like the answer that arrived, but he understood. He _wished he didn't_ , but he got it, and it earned a grimace. "Stupid, stubborn fool," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

He needed to move. Not run, not dart out the door as he probably should have done. No, against his better judgement he hissed out his frustration and turned to pace the narrow living space. The wooden table in his way ended up forcefully pushed towards whatever that _thing_ masquerading as a couch was, a dull whine of wood on wood as it protested the sudden movement.

Bucky paused, frowning in thought at the table before turning abruptly turning back to Steve. "Why are you here? What possible reason would _you_ have in an unimportant shithole like this?" It wasn't the most burning question he could ask, but it was the one that seemed to make the most sense to ask. At least that way he could try and begin to figure out what was going on. If he ever would.

* * *

Bucky's reaction was unexpected, but now Steve really couldn't resist smiling. Thankfully, Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head, and by the time he was looking at Steve again, he had rearranged his features into what was hopefully neutrality. Even if Bucky sounded different, the words he spoke were familiar, and that was enough to make warmth well up in Steve's chest for a few seconds. He was grasping at straws, he knew that well – but he was _damn well_ going to take what he could get. "So I've been told before," he noted lightly, watching the other move across the room.

The table ended up being pushed out of the way, next to the couch that had obviously seen better days. Frankly, the smell of the entire place was beginning to wear down on Steve; he wished they could just leave. Bucky wasn't going to leave _with him_ , though, so that was out of the question for now, as Steve had no intention of letting him out of his sight.

He followed him with his eyes, taking the sight of him in; the stiffness of his shoulders, the ease with which he walked regardless. It was actually a little awe-inspiring, how carelessly he seemed to move across the room, the floorboards not so much as squeaking under his feet. By the look of them, Steve had thought they'd flat out _break_ if he stepped on them, and he'd leave a foot-sized dent. He'd never been much for subtlety…

He only raised his eyes to meet Bucky's when the other spoke again. This was probably a better question (or, at least, more direct), but all the same, Steve wasn't quite sure what exactly to say. "I'm… not quite sure," he said tentatively, and now he was rubbing at his cheek without even realizing he was doing it. "I don't always know what kind of place I'm being sent to. I knew enough of what was essential to know, but – well, I admit this isn't quite what I expected."

He didn't sound the least bit regretful, though. Maybe it was an 'unimportant shithole', but all the importance Steve needed was in front of him.

* * *

Bucky huffed out what was the barest ghost of a laugh at the answer to his question, shaking his head. "You and me both." His right hand came up, massaging the spot between his eyebrows as he paced. The movement helped him think, it shifted the cobwebs in his head and caused the fog to lift. He may have been able to sit and wait hours for a target but right now, moving was one of the few things that gave him clarity - or as near as he could come for the moment. Movement, action, it stopped his thoughts from slowing down and lingering. So he paced, and he thought.

"Shit, it stinks in here." His nose wrinkled,as the smell of grime and mould finally started to get to him. If anything, it smelled like something had died long ago and no one bothered to clean up after the body had been removed. He would never have been able to stop the night in this place, as had been his original intention. He probably would have just looted what he could and left.

Ignoring Steve for the moment, Bucky approached the windows and gave the grimy, rotted planks the once over. They looked, for all the world, as if they would just crumble at his touch and he was surprised that they had something resembling substance as he pulled them off, one by one, with the dull creak of nails being pulled from where they had rusted in.

"Who are they?" He asked over his shoulder as he forced the latch and opened a window from a position where any watching sniper wouldn't be able to target. "The people in your ear," he added, for clarification, taking a deep breath of the clearer air that rushed in. The light that came in with it didn't make the bedsit look any better, he noticed as he looked back at Steve, if anything the place looked worse in the daylight.

* * *

Steve continued to follow Bucky's movements with his eyes, but decided to keep out of his way for now. The need to move was familiar; it was something he had always marveled at, to be honest. Someone who felt the need to have constant movement to work well, and yet such a good sniper, which had oftentimes left him in need of no movement whatsoever, sometimes for hours on end. He did that perfectly, too. Steve couldn't help the smile now stuck on his lips when he heard the other laugh. Frankly, he hadn't been convinced Bucky still _knew how_ to laugh. To be proven wrong in that case was more than marvelous. It was palpable _hope_ itself.

In spite of what the others probably thought, what Bucky seemed to have thought when he'd gotten so angry with Steve for insisting they knew each other, Steve had no illusions about how this could turn out. He wanted Bucky to remember, yes, but he didn't, in fact, just want his old friend back. He knew damn well how impossible that would have been. The Winter Soldier had irreversibly left his imprint on Bucky's soul, and even if he remembered "Bucky", the mixture of the two will have changed him forever. That was fine with Steve. Really, if he thought about it, he would have just been fine with it if Bucky got the chance to pick his own future. Steve wanted to cut the chains binding him to HYDRA, forcing his hands to do their horrendous bidding, first and foremost. What happened after that was up to the Lord Almighty. Steve wanted Bucky to have his memories back, because he believed he'd be better off with them, but if, after everything was said and done, Bucky wanted nothing to do with him, well – he'd come to terms with that. Probably. As long as Bucky was no longer an asset of HYDRA, unable to find his own path.

He realized he had spaced out for a moment when Bucky spoke again, and he frowned at the implications of that. Was he really that careless? It was easy not to feel threatened by Bucky's presence, but he had to remind himself that even if the circumstances were _odd_ at the moment, the Winter Soldier was most likely still there. He tapped the earpiece. _Steve, you're quiet_ , she murmured in his ear. "I'm fine," he murmured. "Stay where you are. I'm good." He looked up again. "Two of Fury's men…" He would have said S.H.I.E.L.D., if it weren't for it not being existent anymore. "And the Black Widow." He raised an eyebrow, wondering if Bucky remembered Natasha. They obviously had some sort of history Steve had never asked about, and Natasha never explained.

* * *

Now that there was something resembling a semi-decent light source illuminating the hovel, Bucky was able to properly take it in. It was, as expected, totally useless. Usually there would be some kind of hidden room or at least a safe in one of these places, but there was absolutely nothing there. It was just a securely locked, run down, abandoned rat hole. He'd been given false information.

There was a faint hint of panic, tickling at the back of his head, as he ran over that last detail. He kept his face completely clear of emotion, but he was running over scenarios in his head. And the most prominent question was had he walked straight into a trap. Was he that out of sorts, that distracted by his own head, that he let himself be cornered?

Bucky watched, with a growing suspicion, as Steve spoke into his earpiece. He didn't even bother to let his expression drop when the man looked back up. While there was a faint recognition at the name 'Black Widow', deep in the back of his memories, it was the first name that triggered a response. "Fury." His expression darkened, staring hard at Steve. The leather glove on his left hand creaked from the pressure of metal fingers digging into it as two words rang through his head and caused his jaw to clench. ' _Mission failed_.'

He wasn't angry, which surprised him. But he felt cold and distant. Had this been any other time, the repercussions for failing were severe; now there was nothing left but nagging doubt. Bucky blinked twice, letting his gaze drop off to one side. He never missed, so how had he failed? Subconsciously gnawing on his bottom lip, he frowned as he ran everything back through his head.

"Where did you get the intel on this safe house?" His eyes flicked back to Steve, returning to his previous train of thought. He was missing something here, among many other things. Something important. He just couldn't quite work out what.

* * *

Steve hadn't actually looked away from Bucky while he'd been talking to Natasha, so he didn't miss the way his expression shifted, and he took note of it with an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. Still, it was the lesser of two evils; he couldn't possibly have Natasha bursting in here at a completely inopportune moment. Besides, it wasn't like he had been expecting Bucky to trust him. (Hope for, _maybe_ , but expect? No.) He took a deep breath, then exhaled again. No matter how he looked at the situation, even if Bucky seemed to have relaxed just a little bit (enough, at least, to have turned his back on Steve while he'd been opening the window), this was a full stalemate, and Steve was getting restless, wishing they could move, not just physically but figuratively, in _any_ direction.

He hadn't forgotten that Fury had also been, at one point, a target of the Winter Soldier, but now he cursed himself inwardly. What a rookie mistake! If he'd had a little less self-control, his face would have been burning. Nobody was supposed to know Fury was alive. Steve would have never actually spoken about him, were it not for that hint of trust he'd placed in Bucky, in the hope that things might go upward from here.

There was a definite limit to revealing things, though, and that line needed to be drawn here. He looked at Bucky almost remorsefully, but his face lacked uncertainty when he replied again, and he didn't need Natasha's urgent whisper of _Steve!_ in his ear either to know what his only option of a response was.

"You know I can't tell you that. For all we know, even if I'd really like to believe otherwise, you still work for HYDRA."

* * *

There was a rising sense of panic edging it's way into his consciousness, a tickle running up his spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the man opposite. Though, if Bucky was totally honest, perhaps it had more to do with him than he wanted to admit. His own safety he didn't care about, he knew he could fight his way out of most situations, but there was an ingrained _need_ to get Steve away from trouble. He couldn't explain it, didn't quite know why yet, but he couldn't ignore it's presence.

Bucky's attention had wandered, wishing for better light and a clearer head. He should have given this place the once-over as soon as he got in. Foolish, amateur error. He was _better_ than that.

And he wasn't happy with Steve's reply either, taking a step towards him. He glared, jaw tense and teeth gritted, as he let his voice drop to a growl. "Stop thinking in protocol for a damn second, _Steve_." There was no threat, quite unlike his posture. Only urgency.

"Look at this place. I was led here by a HYDRA agent." He ground out the words, keeping his voice low. "This isn't a safe house. This is a trap. For _me_." He emphasised that last word. "And they may have leaked the location to whatever your group is calling themselves on the slim chance that they might net the big fish as well."

* * *

Steve found himself stiffening when Bucky said his name; and not even because it was the first time in _decades_ that he'd said it, but because of the urgency in his voice, the tone indicating there was something, something important, that Steve had forgotten, and it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

"Why would they lead _you_ here if they wanted to capture you?" he asked, trying to assess the situation better. He didn't like the thought of such a bad mess-up; it could jeopardize _everything_. "Wouldn't they be under the impression that you'll go back anyway, when," he swallowed, but he didn't falter, "when you finished your mission?"

Perhaps the Winter Soldier had been under surveillance. It would have made sense. On the helicarrier, Bucky had seemed a lot more hesitant. Maybe he'd retained a few fragments of their meeting on the bridge; maybe they thought he wasn't safe to leave alone anymore. The thought made him both happy and frightened, which was an odd combination to feel.

As for the other half of the story, "I had no idea you were going to be here. I don't see how I could be baited with something I'm _not_ told." Still, there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he'd missed something, some vital point, and this feeling made his throat constrict almost painfully. Getting Bucky back wasn't the only thing at stake anymore. "Nat, are you listening to this?" he asked, tapping his finger to the earpiece again. "Nat?"

Silence. "Natasha."

Another couple of seconds, and then he lowered his hand, staring at Bucky with a mixture of anger, frustration, and helplessness. "Well, fuck."

* * *

Bucky let out a frustrated growl, balling his fists at his sides and resisting the urge to punch Steve for being so dense all the time. Perhaps it was his fault for not being clear from the get-go. Perhaps he should have come out with a big flashing neon sign that read _'NOT HYDRA'_. Or perhaps neither of them were thinking clearly enough to see the threat right under their noses. Or _in_ their noses, rather, given the stench of the place.

"Oh for the love of," he huffed out, sagging slightly. "They want to capture me because I've been off their damn radar since the Potomac." He fought to urge to rush with his explanation but he did take a slow step forward, his hands up to show he was not making any threat by the move. "They know I'm not going back willingly, I made that perfectly clear when I killed half a dozen of their agents a few weeks ago."

Bucky paused, letting his hands drop, a sombre look creeping onto his features. "Just because you were kept in the dark, doesn't mean your superiors weren't. Does Fury tell you everything, or just what he thinks you need to know?" He frowned, chewing on his lower lip. "How desperately do your CO's want to take me in, I wonder? Enough to walk their best man into a trap?"

He fell silent as Steve got no response on his earpiece, his heart starting to thump in his chest as the adrenaline levels began to spike again. "We need to go. Natalia can handle herself but we _need_ to get out. Now."

* * *

Well, okay, this _was_ new to Steve, and he hated that a lot. Had he really been deluding himself all along? "You know Fury has no personal reason to like you, but I've made my intentions pretty clear to him." Fury didn't _know_ how to be honest, really. Both times Steve had uncovered something huge and dirty about S.H.I.E.L.D., he had been forcing Fury's hand in it. But _damn it_ , Fury owed him, at least a bit. If it weren't for him and Natasha, HYDRA would have _eaten_ S.H.I.E.L.D. up. That had to count for something. Or so Steve had thought. Perhaps Fury thought the debt was paid when he let them uncover S.H.I.E.L.D. after everything was said and done. Still, Steve and Natasha _were_ his best agents, as of now; not counting Hill, of course, but Hill was a different category of her own. Would he have risked both of them? Steve thought he wouldn't have. But alas, right now, there was no way of knowing whether he was right or wrong.

"This has nothing to do with them," he declared finally, having made up his mind. "It has to be HYDRA." Everything, every damn shitty thing that had ever happened to Steve, all came back to HYDRA, didn't it? He felt like swearing again. There was still nothing coming in through his earpiece, and he would have lied if he said he wasn't desperate now.

At Bucky's last sentence, Steve's heart skipped a beat. _Seriously?_ He grit his teeth in frustration, remembering the last time he had dragged Natasha into a HYDRA base. She could handle herself, all right, to a certain extent, but, given past experiences, he wouldn't have put it past their enemies to stage another explosion. And no matter how much he hated the thought that he was practically forced to choose between two precious people, he knew what was the right thing to do. "Absolutely _not_ ," he said through gritted teeth; and already, he was turning towards where he'd come from, shield raised as he edged towards the door, towards where Natasha was supposed to have been stationed, waiting for him.

"If HYDRA wants you, you're right, you probably _should_ leave, as quickly as possible." A part of him felt like dying, saying that. It was like plummeting into the Potomac all over again. "I'm _not_ leaving without Natasha." If Bucky remembered what Steve was like, even just a _little_ , he would know it was not about disrespect, or underestimating the Widow. It was about the fact that the sheer thought of abandoning the people he cared about was **unacceptable**.

* * *

Bucky stayed silent as he watched the gears in Steve's head turn. It wasn't a slow process, the man was too smart for that, but it felt like forever. The trap was closing, that was becoming clear, and he'd been stupid enough to walk them both into it. If he had gotten himself caught alone, that was one thing and he would've accepted that he was utterly stupid. He had been making nothing but schoolboy errors all day - all week if he was honest - and now it was biting him in the ass.

But it wasn't just him, not anymore. It was Steve and his team and heaven knows who else that had gotten involved. And it was all on him. _'Damn it,'_ he should have run in the first place. Especially considering that Steve had seemed to have grabbed the bull by the horns and made up his mind on who was to blame. Of course it was HYDRA, it always was, but a great deal of the blame lay at Bucky's feet.

He watched, utterly dumbfounded, as Steve turned to leave. The sheer stubborn, bull-headed nature of the man left him floundering - but not unsurprised that he had chosen to go after Natasha. He found he had no immediate reply and he ended up just stood in silence. Now it was _his_ turn to make the clock tick slowly.

With a severely irritated grumble as he came to a decision, Bucky shook his head and unzipped the thin, dirty jacket he wore over the Winter Soldier uniform he had barely taken off for god knows how long, tossing it aside. He pointed a metal finger directly at Steve. "You are a stupid, stubborn son of a bitch with a death wish." He dropped his hand, letting out a frustrated groan and gesturing towards the door. "Lets go find the Widow and sort this goddamn mess out."

* * *

Steve wouldn't have admitted to it out loud (not right at this very moment, at least; maybe later, when their lives weren't on the line), but seeing that sort of determination on Bucky's face, seeing him toss the jacket aside – at that moment, he'd mentally crossed his fingers, no shame – it was a stone falling off his chest. Relief flooded him, and it took him a moment to squash it down; it was far too early to feel relieved. And still, as Bucky pointed a finger at him, berating him for his behaviour, it was all Steve could do not to laugh out loud. "Yeah, but you knew that already, didn't you?" he replied with a smile, before turning towards the door again.

He listed all of their possible options while he closed the distance between himself and the door. He didn't look back, but he was fairly certain Bucky was right at his heels, and that was perfect that way; he was quick and deadly, but he still wasn't bulletproof, and Steve was the one with the impenetrable shield, plus neither of them knew how many enemies were around. He just didn't like this silence at all.

Natasha wasn't where he'd left her, but that much had already been obvious. On the other hand, he couldn't see anyone else around either, not enemies, or the other two agents. He had a _very_ bad feeling about this. And – hell, he could have won the lottery with skills like that. The moment they were both out the door, there was something of a rumble, and cracks began to appear in the wall. "… How many floors up are we, again?"

* * *

He didn't need this, not really. Had hadn't eaten properly in days, hadn't slept in more than snatches here and there and now he was headed into a fight he could have - should have - avoided. And yet, despite all that, he couldn't bring himself to feel any resentment towards the situation. He should've felt angry and utterly annoyed, but there was a strange buzz mixed in with the adrenaline. An excitement he couldn't place. He'd have to think on that later because no answer was forthcoming at present.

Bucky had made a note of every door and every exit on the way up the stairs in the ramshackle apartment building. There were some that were obviously vacant but others seemed to have life, and the low-income residents had obviously tried to make the best of their surroundings. Which is why the rumble, far below that sent cracks ripping up the walls at lightning speed. He never looked at Steve when the question was asked, instead he leaned over the stairway railing and swore under his breath.

"This building has nine floors and a basement," he began, his voice distant as he tried to put things together in his head. "Only thing above us is the roof. We're high enough for _that_ to be a problem," he nodded to the crack just as another deep rumble shook the building. "Whatever you're planning, Cap, now's time to get it in motion. We don't have a lot of room for manoeuvre."

* * *

Nine floors was not a lot compared to the height he'd jumped last time. He was contemplating it; the shield would take the fall, and if he was quick enough, he could turn it over and then he wouldn't have to care about whatever collapses on him afterwards. It had done the job for him and Natasha, after all. However, he was fairly certain the idea wouldn't go nearly as well with Bucky – five minutes ago, he was pointing a gun at him, so there was no way in hell he was going to willingly go along with this, even if for some godforsaken reason he was at least still here, having decided to aid Steve, rather than just escape on his own. Maybe he _was_ a little worried about Natasha, Steve had no idea. He seemed to have remembered her, at least; he had called her Natalia.

He had no time to dwell on any of that, though; the cracks in the wall are getting deeper and deeper. "I've jumped off higher places," he noted, partially just to see how Bucky would react, but – yeah, no. His expression was pretty clear on that. However, Steve was also clear on not leaving Bucky to his own devices in a collapsing building, so without another word, he headed for the nearest flight of stairs, as quick as he could, trusting the other to be right at his heels.

They were already three levels down when he first heard voices filtering out from some of the apartments. He stopped abruptly, maybe a little too abruptly, too. There were now cracks everywhere; it was a goddamn miracle the building was still standing. He couldn't even bring himself to say _I didn't know there were civilians in here_ – the thought itself was horrifying and shameful; this was his fault, never enough information, always a little too trusting, trusting enough to be careless. If these people died, it was going to be his fault.

"You go on ahead. Find Natasha, if you can. I'll be behind you." He sounded more convinced of that than he actually felt, but he'd had a whole underground bunker blown on him; he could get by.

* * *

A rumble, a crack. A groan from the walls and plaster from the ceiling. Rinse, repeat. They were trying to bring the entire damn building down on their heads and it was enough for Bucky to wonder why the hell they'd do that. If they were trying to capture either of them, this was not the way to go about it. Perhaps HYDRA had just got sick of being picked off and given the run around and decided it was better to cut their losses. He wouldn't blame them if that was the case.

Bucky was never more than two steps behind Steve as they hit the stairs, taking them two or three steps at a time. The smell of rot left behind them now exchanged for concrete dust everywhere. He was so focused on getting out that he almost missed the signs that Steve was going to put the brakes on. Very nearly crashing into the back of the man, he skidded to a stop, dodging around into the hallway to avoid a collision.

He threw an accusatory look back at Steve but the man's attention was elsewhere. Frowning, he followed the man's gaze to the civilian apartments and let out a frustrated growl. There wasn't many and not all were occupied and _of course_ Captain America was going to try to save them. Of course he was. There was a spike of anger at the order and Bucky turned on Steve. "Like fuck that's happening."

Cursing as he stalked off down the hall, he kicked in the first door with ease before moving on to the next. It would be up to Steve to get these people motivated because he'd be damned if he was going to.

* * *

It seemed that every step, every turn was a surprise. Or, well, maybe Steve was just a little too cynical now. Either way, Bucky was a constant surprise, refusing to just leave him behind for the _second_ time in a row. Steve didn't have time to contemplate the hows or whys right now, though. He followed as quickly as possible, entering the apartment Bucky had just kicked the door open to, and finding a family of two huddled together on the floor. "Out!" he yelled at them without thinking. "Get out! What are you waiting for? Run!" He couldn't possibly carry them down five floors, not if he wanted to get to others. He ushered them down the stairs in front of him, looking into other apartments with open doors. He could always see Bucky's back just ahead of himself; never out of sight, but not slowing down either. By the time they were on the second floor, Steve had five people right behind him, all running for dear life.

And that was when the cracking finally stopped. _Shit._ Steve had to decide in a matter of two seconds; he whirled around, and broke the closest two windows with his shield and an elbow. There was no choice. "Jump!" They were maybe seven, eight metres high. If they could avoid the building itself falling on them, they could get away with a few broken bones. He grabbed a hold of the smallest child, and jumped himself, through the broken glass and the debris, curling himself protectively around the boy and aiming the shield towards the ground.

They plummeted into the ground, and then everything came down all at once. He barely had time to roll over and hide them both under the shield; he hoped, at the back of his mind, that Bucky had found somewhere safer to jump, because this was plain stupid, he had to go in the direction where the wall followed, didn't he? He also hoped Natasha was still fighting somewhere, and not buried under blocks of cement. It was hard not to think back to Zola's bunker, the terror welling up in him as he held her as close as possible, darkness falling upon them as they were buried alive. This seemed to last longer, but maybe it was only his imagination.

* * *

Every kick seemed to be stronger than the last as Bucky worked out his frustration to the point where the last door on the third floor actually ended up hanging from it's hinges from the force. He had no explanation as to _why_ he was doing this, given the fact he was just given his second run in as many minutes and still refused to take it. But there was just something that said 'no'. A deep part of his consciousness that dug in it's heels and simply refused to leave Steve in a situation like the one they were in. He wasn't a hero, but he'd be damned if he would let one down thanks to his own stupidity.

Bucky had vanished into an apartment, one of the last on the row, simply because there was a mess of red hair sprawled out on the floor. There was no time to alert Steve to the fact he had just found the woman he refused to leave. He had his fingers pressed to her throat, checking for a pulse, when the cracking stopped. There was a pulse there but there was absolutely no time to rouse her - if he was even sure he could. Instead, he muttered an apology and hefted her over his right shoulder.

In a stroke of luck, the living area window was lined up almost perfectly with a window in the building opposite and, with a grimace, Bucky backed up. He charged forward, the ground falling out from under him as he launched through the glass, his left forearm up to shield his eyes from the debris. His landing was sloppy, considering he couldn't roll and he was carrying what was essentially dead weight on his shoulder. He staggered, caught himself before he toppled over, and straightened. The room he had landed in was empty, but well furnished. Panting hard, he lay the prone Widow onto a nearby couch and bolted for the door.

Natasha would be fine there, he hoped. Steve was the more pressing issue. He didn't bother taking the flight of stairs, he simply lumped over the railing and dropped down two flights in the center. He grunted when he landed but broke out into a run all the same, skidding to a stop when he reached the pile of rubble where a wall once stood. "Cap!" It was a barked summons that ripped at his throat, unused to the volume or the urgency. "Steve."

* * *

Something was digging into Steve's back. He tightened his arms a little, and the child he was holding let out a soft moan – good, he was alive. They were okay. He pushed himself upwards, using the shield and his own back to push the rubble off them; slowly, painstakingly, he dug the two of them out. It was hard to breathe, and he was faintly aware of a deep cut in one of his thighs that was, by the feel of the warmth gushing down on his leg, bleeding profusely. When he was finally able to stand, throwing enough rocks off of them to breathe freely again, he looked around. He thought he had heard Bucky call his name, but the first thing he spotted was a woman; apparently the child's mother, for the boy immediately scrambled for her, away from Steve. It had to be a miracle that they were both alive – they seemed to be the only ones, too, which sent a horrible pain down Steve's spine, tightening his throat.

The next thing he saw was Bucky himself, this time. He wore a harassed expression Steve couldn't really place anywhere in his mind, but then, it was probably because he felt oddly light-headed for some reason. "Hey. I'm good," he called, exhaling noisily. Where _was_ everyone else? Natasha? The other two agents? The enemy?

He willed himself to step out from the heap of rubble, and an unexpectedly sharp pain shot up his hips. He looked down, and that was when he realized he had half a pane of a window, a big, jagged piece of glass, steadily embedded in the back of his thigh. " _Just_ what I needed." His uniform was more or less bulletproof, but kevlar did nothing against knives and other sharp close-range instruments. He leaned down and jerked the glass out; of course, now it was going to bleed even more, but at least it could start healing up as well. If he hadn't been eager to get out of here before, he surely was now.

Finally, he managed to free himself fully, and he staggered to Bucky's side, knowing he would get at least a severe look of disapproval, if not straight being told how stupid and reckless he was being again. He decided to cut before it. "Let's find Natasha and get the hell out of here."

* * *

At the sight of Steve, and a kid that scrambled over the rubble to his mother, Bucky visibly sagged. The adrenaline in his system was only going to last for so long and he was starting to run on empty. But, despite the concrete dust everywhere - including halfway to his heaving lungs - he forced himself to stay standing and alert. Though he was distinctly unimpressed by the state of Steve and his somewhat unfiltered expression of worry was replaced by a tired glare.

He coughed once, spitting out the tacky ball of phlegm that came up with it and groaned as the ache of jarring himself on landing started to set into his knees and hips. So much for being in peak physical form, he felt as if he was going to break down at the end of all this. At Steve's call, all Bucky could do was nod and roll his eyes, waving a hand dismissively in his direction as a way of saying he could see that.

There was a crowd gathering, too many staring eyes. Mercifully, most of them were on Captain America as he limped over. There were, however, far too many lingering stares on the shiny metal arm and it made him utterly uncomfortable. Still, he leaned slightly to get a look at the troubling stream of blood that ran down the back of Steve's leg. "I hope you don't expect me to carry you, I'm going to have my hands full enough."

He shook his head and made to go back to the building he had managed to jump into, managing to move and still give the appearance that his energy levels were anything but rock bottom. "I found Natalia before the place collapsed. She's out cold though."

* * *

Steve was expecting the glare, and frankly, it didn't even look threatening, but rather just said _I'm so done with everything_. Which Steve could certainly sympathize with, and then that was only about the events of today, not taking into account the fact that Bucky looked so much more exhausted than Steve felt, even in spite of his leg injury.

Speaking of, he did have some bandages somewhere in a pouch. It was rather makeshift, technically just a piece of cloth he tied around his thigh as strongly as he could; he was fairly certain that he half cut off his own bloodstream, and his foot would be feeling cold in a matter of minutes, but that was sort of the point of stopping the bleeding. He was also aware of the eyes staring at them, but, for once, he didn't feel the need of standing around and trying to explain away the damage. Fury could do that – it was partially his fault they landed in such a shitty situation; either for not being informed enough, or omitting facts on purpose. (Either way, he was definitely going to get to know just how pissed Steve was about all of it.)

He tried his leg, and decided it was safe to put his weight on it, then he looked up at Bucky, once again taking in his appearance. He didn't look hurt, but he did look like he was on the verge of passing out. "I don't think you should carry _anyone_ , as a matter of fact, in a state like that," he noted, though he did wonder for a moment what he'd meant by his hands being full. Then Bucky began to walk away, and Steve caught up to him, eyebrows furrowing. "Out cold?! What happened to her?" He was glad that she was at least alive, and it seemed that she had Bucky to thank for that. He hoped it wasn't inopportune to feel relief now, because he was too weary to quench it again.

As they stepped back into the room where Bucky had left Natasha, he stared at her for a moment, then he gave him a lopsided, thin smile, though he was unsure if the other actually saw it, and finally said, "I'll carry her." What he actually meant was _thank you_.

* * *

For the first time that he could remember, Bucky could feel the weight of his arm dragging on his shoulder. He had been tired before, some of the Winter Soldier's missions had been long and physically gruelling, but never had he felt as if he'd never get up again if he was to sit down. That's why he kept moving, that's why he couldn't stop because if he stopped he feared his legs might collapse out from under him.

Despite the exhaustion that ate away at him as the adrenaline subsided, he still scanned every detail of the rooms they passed through. His eyes never lingered on one thing as he checked the stairwell and the landing afterwards. He doubted that this building was a trap like the one next door. He _hoped_ the damn thing wasn't, at least.

The apartment he had left Natasha in was a civilian's home, simply furnished but now looking a little worse for wear considering he had destroyed the window on the way in and the door on the way out. The Widow hadn't moved, as expected, and the owners hadn't returned. That last point made him feel surprisingly guilty - more so than the fact people had lost not only their homes but their lives in the next building.

"Hell if I know," he huffed out, shaking his head. "She was flat out on the floor of an apartment when I found her." The chair next to the couch the Widow was on looked exceptionally tempting, but instead he rolled his shoulders with a grimace and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He barely reacted to the faint smile and simply shrugged at Steve's comment. "Yeah, whatever you want." He was too tired to argue about anything anyway.

* * *

Steve crouched down to check Natasha; she didn't move when he pressed his finger under her chin to check her pulse – still running, but weak; had she been poisoned? Knocked out? – there was no sign of blood on her anywhere, but they didn't have time for him to do anything but scoop her up in his arms, not only because God only knew how many HYDRA agents could still be around, but also because Bucky looked like he was going to collapse any moment, too. This really wasn't looking good.

"Come on, then." His leg was stinging, but he'd had much worse, so he paid it no heed. Natasha's limp body in his arms was more or less covered by the shield he'd pulled onto his arm, but he let Bucky exit the building first, given that he was the one with hands left free for reaction. It clearly showed the fact that the adrenaline was wearing off, that it only occurred to Steve when they were already moving down the street, away from the entire mess, that Bucky wasn't actually armed either. Thankfully, nobody seemed to be nearby. It bothered Steve – this entire mission was lousy, there wasn't a single part of it that wasn't lousy, there were so many open ends and unanswered questions; but he was too worried about his two current companions to think of the rest; the other two agents, the enemy.

Some of his questions, shockingly enough, got answered, though. It didn't take them long to get out of the small town; on the edge of it, the small helicopter that had brought them here waited, and there were the two missing agents. While Steve was rather relieved to see them alive, he was also more than pissed at them just up and leaving. As it turned out, Natasha was the one that had sent them back, when she realized who Steve was talking to. They were now eyeing Bucky with more than just a little suspicion, but Steve made it quite clear that everyone present was on the same side – that, and there was the more urgent matter of finding out what was wrong with Natasha.

Second-to-last, Steve was already holding onto the handle of the door of the helicopter when he turned back to Bucky, suddenly uncertain. "You're coming, right…?"

* * *

Bucky watched impassively as Steve gave Natasha a quick once-over, a hand lifting to run through his hair and scratch at his scalp as he dragged the long, tangled, greasy strands out of his face. He said nothing as Steve picked up the Widow but his gaze momentarily lingered on the makeshift bandage around then Captain's thigh, frowning slightly and doubting if either of the was in a fit state to be going through these shenanigans.

But he made no protest as he lead the way, never letting his guard drop in case of an ambush. Though quite what a knife and a metal arm would be able to do in the hands of someone running on fumes against HYDRA agents with guns was beyond him. They'd all be captured or they'd get killed, either way, he wasn't going to go down without a fight - gun or not.

That train of thought was, however, proven unnecessary, as they were left alone as they moved towards the edge of the town. And despite the exhaustion and Steve's injury, they weren't exactly moving at a slow pace. "They've never outright tried to kill me before," he noted, idly. "Guess I pissed them off."

The helicopter, and the agents waiting nearby, were another hurdle. While Steve walked on with the downed Widow, Bucky's pace slowed until he ground to a stop away from the group. The agents eyed him with just as much suspicion as he did them and he pursed his lips as Steve turned back to him. "'M I under arrest?" His posture had become defensive, attention switching between Steve and the agents. Not for the first time today, he simply didn't know what to do.

* * *

The question halted Steve. It was not what he expected, and for a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. Of course, the answer he _wanted_ to say was _no_ , but maybe it was a bit more complicated than that. He was pretty sure Fury wanted to capture the Winter Soldier, and if it turned out Steve had a hand in letting that not happen, he was going to get it from him. On the other hand, Steve and Natasha had pretty much disassembled S.H.I.E.L.D. – perhaps he was just a little too confident now, but he didn't think there was a lot he couldn't get away with.

Overall, it came down to one most crucial thing: that Bucky was more important to him. It was conflicting, yes, but he couldn't lie to himself – at this point, there wasn't really anything he wouldn't have done for him. "No, you're not," he said firmly, before he could have thought more about it. The two agents looked at each other, but neither of them spoke, and even then, Steve was having none of it.

"You two," he pointed a finger at them, "have pretty much fled – yeah, I know you were ordered to, but the fact stands – while we had a goddamn building explode on us. If it weren't for Bucky, I probably wouldn't be in one piece right now, and Natasha would most definitely be dead, so there's that. We'll fly back to DC, you'll get her somewhere where she can get help, and we…" He looked back at Bucky. Suddenly, he felt the rest of the strength just leave his legs; he ended up sitting down in the open doorway of the helicopter, fingers digging into his thigh as if that would make the pain more bearable. The plea was clearly visible in his eyes; he just wanted to get out of here, and he didn't want to leave his best friend behind – it had already happened more times than it should have.

"We're _going home_."

* * *

Bucky didn't quite know what to expect for an answer. If he was perfectly honest, he half expected the two agents to take over the situation and declare him an enemy. He wouldn't have even be surprised if they had opened fire on him - and he was too damn exhausted to do anything about it. So when nothing happened, it left him with an empty sense of unease. Ultimately the end result would rest on Steve's shoulders, and if the man was simply going to follow his superior's orders or not. The memories that trickled through told of a defiant man willing to break regulation and defy orders to do the right thing. Which was fine, but Bucky had no idea what the 'right thing' was anymore.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, though it was more the tone and the expression on Steve's face that was the cause, rather than what was said. He was so determined and it was _so familiar_ that Bucky had to pause. It seemed to surprise the pair of agents just as much and he would have found their reaction amusing if he had the energy.

He let his gaze drop to the floor as Steve talked. The way he spoke it made him sound like some kind of hero when he was anything but. _'Only did it to keep you safe.'_ But there was no will to argue, no fight left in him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steve sit in the doorway and his attention was pulled back to him. He pursed his lips and was silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping off to one side again in thought.

There wasn't much left for him to lose. With more confidence than he felt, and more energy than he really had, he approached where Steve was sat. "Okay." It wasn't very loud and was mostly to himself. But he nodded and held out a hand. "Okay."

* * *

Steve wasn't really worried about the reaction of the two agents; he was the senior agent in the group (well, him and Natasha, but she was currently out of commission), and he was sure his orders would be followed. There was also the benefit of this food chain of ordering them, where they could just put the blame entirely on Steve later on, if there was going to be trouble about how things went down. Maybe Steve was a little overconfident on the matter of how much he could get away with, but, then again, he really was just too exhausted at this point to care.

All in all, the only uncertain factor in this equation was the question of how Bucky would react – but thankfully, he seemed to be fine with the turn of events. Truthfully, there was a small part of Steve that had been worried Bucky would just turn around and leave if he was told he wasn't under arrest. Perhaps he only decided against it because he was too tired for it, too; it could still happen later – but really, with the way Bucky looked right now, Steve decided that resting was priority for both of them, and whatever came afterwards, would be easier to deal with.

He took the offered hand with a grateful smile – and it wasn't until he pulled himself to his feet that he realized he did need the help; his right leg was visibly trembling, and it took both of his hands holding onto the door handle for him to be able to pull himself up into the vehicle. He waited for Bucky to get in too before falling into one of the seats, and as the engines roared to life, he pressed his palm against the blood-soaked fabric around his thigh, wondering if he should dare unwrap it. Most of it was a brilliant shade of crimson red now, but as far as he could tell, it wasn't bleeding so profusely anymore; not enough to drip down to the floor, at least.

He leaned back, and closed his eyes, reaching up to rub at his temples; maybe he couldn't get ill, but he could feel the beginnings of what was probably going to grow into a raging headache.


	2. Definitions of Home

**Same deal as before, just a follow-on from the previous thread.**

* * *

Natasha was going to be all right, and at this point, that was basically all Steve cared about. The past couple of hours had been a little blurry; his leg was still throbbing viciously, and it had only been a stroke of sheer luck that he actually managed to skip debriefing. (It was going to have repercussions, but he would deal with them when he had his brains back, after some sleep and food and things like that.)

"Maybe I _should_ have had someone look at my leg," he admitted in a low voice, but he was more or less talking to himself. He could imagine the glare of disapproval Bucky was probably aiming at the back of his head, but he didn't look up at him; he fiddled with his keys instead, letting them both into his apartment. He didn't know his neighbors well, and he was glad none of them were around to see him arrive all slashed up, with a friend who didn't look much friendlier either – but he was still smiling slightly, the reason for which was none other than said friend's presence.

It was still a little unbelievable, how they'd wound up here – but Steve wasn't going to question it anymore. It seemed that, as soon as he had made it absolutely clear that he didn't want to fight, Bucky decided to do the same. Steve decided to take it at face value – he had now seen two completely opposite sides; one that had wanted to protect him all the time, back then, and one who had intended to kill him at one point, but Bucky had been straightforward and efficient about both, and he didn't backstab. Steve was putting his money in with that.

"Make yourself at home," he said at length, finally stepping inside. The apartment wasn't very different from the previous one, aside from it being on a different side of DC. It was maybe a little bigger, and, well, not completely trashed. He hoped it would stay that way.

* * *

All the way back, Bucky's eyes returned to the redhead time and again. Aside from the events on the bridge, he felt like he should know her. And the name, Natalia, which came out easier and first instead of the Natasha that Steve had called her by. He felt there should be a memory there and instead there was little more than a black hole. Of course, when he wasn't trying to place where he'd seen the woman before, he was looking directly at the agents opposite with a tired stare. He wasn't trying to intimidate, but he couldn't help but be amused at their uncomfortable fidgeting.

Simply sitting down for the ride took the edge off the bone-weary exhaustion but it still lingered, hovering on the edge of his subconscious and making him feel as if he was moving at the speed of molasses on a cold day. He didn't speak much either, not unless he was spoken to - but then that had become a default.

Another default was the fact he never stopped scanning their surroundings. He'd slipped up with the safe house and was still kicking himself for it. He didn't even stop when they were stood in the hallway outside of Steve's apartment. He stilled at the sound of Steve's voice and rolled his eyes. "Maybe we should change your title to Captain Obvious." His vocal tone was much the same as the man in front, his expression unimpressed.

Bucky followed Steve into the apartment but not after giving the hallway another glance over his shoulder. Then, and only then, did he turn his attention to the living space in front of him, slowly wandering into the largest room. He counted the windows, the exit routes, potential bullet trajectories, areas of cover. "Huh, somehow I was expecting something…" he struggled for the right words, his attention still on scoping the apartment. "Bigger." He finished lamely, shrugging.

* * *

Steve cast a glance towards Bucky, his lips quirking upwards. He had expected _some_ sort of comment; he was glad it was more or less a joke instead of actually being reprimanded (not entirely out of the question). "That would then make you the Smartass Soldier, right?" he shot back, voice as innocent as he could potentially get it, but the persistent smile in the corner of his mouth was anything but. He walked further in, knowing Bucky would most likely follow. When he looked back, he caught a peculiar expression on the other's face, as if he was analyzing everything around them, and it made him raise an eyebrow – how did he still have energy and brainpower to do that?

"I don't expect to be attacked in my own home, you know," he said – but then a moment later, he realized, _it had happened before_. Not that he was going to say that, for obvious reasons, but still… He cleared his throat, shedding his jacket and throwing it on the back of a chair, then ran his fingers through his hair, groaning when it made him feel like both his hair _and_ his hand came away dirtier than before. "God, I need a shower." He gave Bucky another sidelong look, and then added, "So do you, though – wanna go first?" He supposed it would be fair, given that he also had to clean the wound on his leg, so he was going to take more time, and Bucky looked more tired anyway. And, well, Steve was just like that by default, keen to disregard any discomfort in favour of friends he cared about, and Bucky had always been on top of that list, so letting him shower first really wasn't even anything worth talking about.

He gave a moment of thought to the comment Bucky had made. He had a point – the place really was small. Steve liked it this way; he was always on his own, and he didn't think he could have made a bigger place homely enough all on his own. "I don't need a lot," he finally said simply. "I never lived in big places, wouldn't know what to do with myself – even this size sometimes feels empty with just me." He wasn't sure if he wanted Bucky to get the reference or not. Of how much better he had used to feel when he hadn't been on his own, no matter how tiny the place might have been. He'd always been like this; if he loved someone, he wanted to share whatever he could. Having nobody to share with, well, there were few things more aching he could imagine.

* * *

Bucky figured that Steve was expecting a reply to his comeback and perhaps, once upon a time, he would have been able to give one. But right now all he could muster was a raised eyebrow and a vaguely apologetic expression. An expression that rapidly turned sceptical as Steve spoke of being attacked in his own home. Bucky never said a word, he simply fixed Steve with a tired expression as he watched him realise that it wasn't that long ago since their first altercation on the roof. Bucky might have been wiped since then but even that wall had crumbled - the more recent memories being the first to return.

Simply standing in the apartment made him feel as if he was making the place look dirty and untidy. He stood hunched in on himself, subconsciously trying to make himself smaller than he was. That habit was new, picked up since the Potomac, but it wasn't something he was completely aware of.

Bucky paused at the offer of the shower, gaze quickly dropping to Steve's thigh before returning to his eyes. Normally he would refuse the offer - not only of going first, but of the shower itself. The Soldier programming in his head spilling over into the most benign things as the walls began to break down. He felt distinctly uncomfortable with the current situation but as he looked between Steve, Steve's thigh, and any number of the chairs he found himself answering despite his misgivings. "If you wouldn't mind. 'M not sure I'd be able to get up again for a while if I sat down 'nd I'm not overly keen on sleeping in my uniform again." Which, considering that's all he'd been doing for all but two nights, was saying a lot.

Part of him wanted to comment on the apartment and the fact that Steve was alone, but it was overridden by the fact he just didn't know what to say. When viewed from a distance, it just sounded dreadfully lonely, but Bucky felt it was more subjective than that - he just wasn't entirely sure what that subject was. Instead, he fidgeted uncomfortably and started off on a tangent. "I…I don't like to ask but," he paused, wetting his lips and not making eye contact. "I don't suppose you've got any spare clothes? This is all I have." He made a vague gesture to what he was wearing, only meeting Steve's eyes briefly.

* * *

Steve couldn't for the life of him figure out what Bucky was looking apologetic about (surely it couldn't be for being a smartass, they both knew perfectly well he was _not_ sorry about that), but really, he had no brain capacity left to think about things like that. And then the other's expression changed, and Steve found himself actually rolling his eyes, knowing that they were now thinking of the same thing. "Well, it's not like _you_ are going to do it again, and frankly – I have a hard time imagining anyone the two of us can't take on together." He couldn't help the way his expression softened when he said that. Somewhere, he expected to be scoffed at again – Bucky had never been much for the openly sentimental bullshit. Usually, neither was Steve, but it was so much harder to keep up his usual walls when he was this tired. Things sort of just came out, and he couldn't have possibly hidden the sheer fact that Bucky being here made him more happy than he could remember having been in the past couple of years.

He laughed lightly at Bucky's next words – not at Bucky himself, simply because he could sympathize with the feeling conveyed. Hell, he wasn't sure _he_ wasn't going to doze off for a few minutes while he'd wait for Bucky to finish showering – a part of him felt like he could just lean against a wall and fall asleep _standing up_. "Go right ahead," he confirmed once more, and he started towards the kitchen area, wondering if he had any sort of juice at home.

He stopped when Bucky spoke again, turning back to meet his eyes, only to find that Bucky refused to meet his. Steve raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue – he had no idea what it could be about. "… oh? Of course I do," he replied then, still looking mildly surprised – he had expected something more serious. "They might be a tad big for you, but…" He broke off the sentence with a small laugh – who would have thought he would say that one day? He could remember the times when he'd borrowed Bucky's warmest sweater to sleep in on the coldest winter nights, and he'd been practically _lost_ in it, it had been so huge on his small frame. Now, he was the one with the broader shoulders, and honestly, he was not completely sure he would get used to it anytime soon. He was used to his own body now, of course, but he'd still spent over two full decades as a scrawny boy, with a best friend that had seemed like a bastion in comparison. Now, they were equals, in every sense of the word.

"Just give me a moment, I'll go and get some."

* * *

After everything that had happened, there was still so much _hope_ left in Steve. Bucky could see it, clear as day, Of course, there was no way that Bucky would repeat his actions of that night even if he was physically capable of it (which he most certainly was not), but Steve didn't know that. He couldn't be completely certain that he didn't have the Winter Soldier playing the long game, yet it was the pure and simple _hope_ that gave Bucky enough pause at the statement. He frowned in thought and couldn't help but look doubtful. "I'm not exactly sure either of us would be much good in a fight right about now." Or a chase. Or anything other than a contest to see who could stay asleep the longest. And the fact that Steve seemed…happy, for lack of a better word, was the only reason why there was nothing stronger in return for the sentimentality.

As Steve headed towards the kitchen, Bucky took an instinctive step away. Weary eyes drifted towards the bathroom at the affirmation, returning only in momentary and erratic glances as he listened. He had become lost somewhere between the adrenaline of the HYDRA safehouse and Steve's apartment. He was used to dealing with sticky spots and thinking on his feet, but this wasn't one of them - and even if it was, his brain power was bumping along the bottom. It would've been so, _so_ easy to revert back to Winter Soldier behaviour when faced with his bone-weary exhaustion - to just stand idle against a wall until given orders. Instead he was hovering somewhere in a grey zone, refusing to slip back into a pre-programmed default like some machine but not entirely sure what James Barnes would do in the same situation.

He looked up when Steve laughed and re-ran what had been said. Something about his clothes being big on him? How was that funn - _oh_. Right. Once the Captain had been a weakling that barely reached his shoulders and now he was both taller and broader than he was. Though since the train - and oh how he hated how that memory lingered constantly - Bucky himself had gotten broader, he would probably never match the man in front of him. He didn't share the joke with Steve, he just watched him with a neutral expression until he came to the conclusion it would be easier to wait by the bathroom door than where he currently was.

* * *

Steve was already on his way towards his bedroom when Bucky spoke again; he smiled to himself, unbeknownst to the other, and rolled his shoulders a little as he leaned down to pull a drawer out. " _Right_ , go ahead and rub it in," he shot back, while digging through the pile of t-shirts, "how useless I am right now." Bucky was right, though, of course. Were they both in top condition, Steve's previous assumption would have stood infinitely – but as they were right now, they could have had a legitimate contest about who can stay awake longer and have both of them _fail_ miserably. This really wouldn't do. He picked out a short-sleeved dark blue shirt, and a pair of comfortable sweatpants, as well as some underwear – he had no idea how much they'd fit, really, Bucky had changed, too; but it was better than the uniform the other was currently wearing, more comfortable. There was a small part of him that secretly looked forward to seeing Bucky in normal, everyday clothes. Perhaps he hoped he would feel just a little bit more like a normal, everyday person. Neither of them were ordinary, really, nor would they ever be – but Steve liked his own, personal lies; he clung to them whenever he could, pretending life could be ordinary if he wanted it to be.

He returned to the living room, and handed the pile to Bucky. His eyes lingered on the other for a moment or two; he really was broader, wasn't he? It had been a few years now since he'd been carved out of the ice, but it was still like he had just been fighting against HYDRA with the Commandos just yesterday; he remembered what his best friend used to look like exactly, and – yeah, things had _changed_.

He deliberately avoided looking at the arm. He gave Bucky a light smile as his hands were free from fabric, and then decided to just leave him to his business, returning to his earlier destination, the kitchen. There, he began to methodically go through the fridge, contemplating all things edible and potable. There was a deep, aching sort of tiredness now, it seemed to sink into his bones, making him sway on his feet, but he wasn't _sleepy_ yet. He reasoned that it was because he was hungry; his metabolism was generally quick, and he had just quickened it with a huge bunch of adrenaline. Then, by the time his sandwich was ready, he realized he was still feeling too gross to eat; the bandage around his thigh was soaked in blood, and he was covered in the dirt of the fallen building.

He left it on the counter, lowered himself into one of the uncomfortable kitchen chairs, so as to keep himself from falling asleep instantly, and stared at nothing in particular, waiting for Bucky to finish.

* * *

Bucky really did default as Steve left the room, still listening but he was now staring at nothing. A thousand yard stare at a spot somewhere between a chair and a wall. He let his mind go as blank as it could, though completely was out of the question, and stilled. He barely blinked through his dead-eyed stare as he waited like an idling computer lacking input. He was entering the stage where he was overtired, that stage where he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he wanted to. The only other time he'd experienced that was in Italy on the march back from where HYDRA had -

\- the movement of Steve in his peripheral vision pulled him back out and he refocused his attention on the bundle of clean clothes the man was carrying. The memory vanished back into the fog and Bucky didn't chase it. He simply took the clothes with a mumbled "thank you," and tried to remember when it was he last wore anything he didn't steal.

Mutely, Bucky found the bathroom without much fuss and locked the door behind him. Dropping the lid on the toilet, he deposited the clothes on the top and got to work removing himself from his uniform. The magnetic harness he used for guns was the first to go, followed by the utility belt and his heavy boots. The leather and steel mesh jacket was fiddly because he'd only ever had to do it up himself five or six times and undo it less than that. The rest, the undershirt with the high neckline and his combat pants followed swiftly, as did his underpants. He didn't look at himself in the mirror, he knew all too well what the ugly seam between skin and metal looked like.

His shower was quick and methodical, quickly figuring out what the knobs and buttons on the controls did. Afterwards he located a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet and cut his straggly facial hair, which was sporting well over a week's worth of growth - closer to two if he was honest. He hacked a good few inches off his hair while he was at it. He dried himself off as quickly as he washed himself, trying on the clothes provided. The underpants, if anything, were a tad smaller than Bucky was expecting but the track pants fit well enough. The shirt was baggy but not obscene and when he finally looked in the mirror at his torso, he wasn't exactly unhappy at the man staring back. He could still see the join where metal bit into skin, the fabric clinging and showing the articulated ridges of his shoulder. But it was better than his uniform, which he gathered in a bundle after unlocking the door, exiting the bathroom and making his way back towards the living room.

* * *

For a few seconds, Steve was so far gone, he didn't even realize when he wasn't alone in the room anymore. He turned to face Bucky in practically slow motion, half rising from where he sat, and then freezing into the motion as he fully took in the sight of the other. Steve's clothes were just a little baggy on him, and he'd apparently trimmed his beard and also his hair. He looked so stunningly _normal_ that Steve felt like all the air had just been squeezed out of his lungs, and he couldn't get in a new dose.

It seemed like an infinitely long time while he just stood there, not even fully risen, just staring at Bucky – but it couldn't have been more than three seconds altogether. Then he finally stood fully, straightened his back, though he made sure to put his weight on his uninjured leg. He swallowed; his throat felt thick, as if there was a layer of cotton sitting on his vocal cords, then said, "I've made a bit to eat, if you're hungry." Bucky looked too tired to feel actual hunger, but Steve knew it from his own experience that people in their profession needed to recognize the signs even if they couldn't literally feel them, and they had to eat to keep their strength. He doubted Bucky had gotten a lot to eat in the past few days. "I'm gonna – "

He pretty much escaped towards the bathroom, sentence unfinished, unable to look at the other any longer without his vision clouding with emotion, and he most definitely couldn't let Bucky see _that_. Hell, he just didn't want it to happen, period, but he was too tired to be in full control of his emotions. Why was it so stirring to see him in street clothes? What was it about the thought of the two of them being regular people something that made his chest ache so unbearably?

 _What plan could the Almighty possibly have that required that he had to put up with all this?_

For a few, long minutes, Steve just sat on top of the closed toilet seat, trying to catch his breath. He couldn't just fall into pieces like that. It wasn't allowed. He was better than that. He began to slowly, painstakingly peel the uniform from himself; first all the extra accessories, holsters, the magnet for his shield, then the coat, the kevlar, the shirt, and _finally_ , he began at the pants. They were sticking to his leg under the bandages; he hadn't bothered to wrap his injury _under_ the clothing, as it hadn't been possible at the time. The edges of the cut were jagged and purple; half-healed, but wrong, unclean, there was even a piece of glass still, just above his knee. He wrenched it out with a loud hiss, unthinkingly, just wanting to be done with it all. Then he grit his teeth and stood under the shower, turning the knobs till it was scorching hot, till he felt like it was melting the skin off his back. The cut burnt like he was pressing a hot rod against it, but it was the best way of cleaning it out properly he could think of, and perhaps, somewhere, he was hoping for a bit of clarity to come through the wall of steam coating the room, too.

By the time he stepped out of the shower cabin, it was barely bleeding a little. It was a good thing he kept random pieces of first-aid everywhere – perhaps it was a little paranoid, but it was hard not to be in his profession, and it would have come in very handy back when Nick had been practically dying on his living room floor, with Sharon having nothing at hand to help him with while Steve had been trying to catch the perpetrator. He threw the memory aside almost forcefully, and concentrated on pressing the cotton filled with alcohol against the wound, then wrapping it into gauze properly and securely. He then got into a similar outfit he'd given to Bucky, except the shirt sleeveless, the fabric of his pants thinner. When he stepped out of the bathroom again, barefoot, and went to look for his guest, his expression was once again as neutral as it could get.

* * *

Staring. The way Steve paused and just _stared_ at him for what felt like forever caused Bucky to freeze in place. He blinked dumbly, fingers twitching around his balled up uniform. Though the moment was brief, it seemed to drag on in slow motion, agonisingly drawn out but still too fast for anything other than the cessation of movement. Then time caught itself up, Steve straightened, and Bucky let go of the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. There was a mention of something about food but there was absolutely no way that Bucky could contemplate eating anything at this moment - he wasn't even sure he could keep it down.

And then Steve vanished, an expression on his face that Bucky struggled to read before he disappeared off towards the bathroom. He frowned at the sound of the door being closed, now thoroughly perplexed by the man's behaviour. There was such a disconnect happening somewhere - drawing blanks where he should've been making connections. He wanted to just shrug and pass it off as _'normal Steve behaviour'_ but he was neither sure that was true, nor that it _was_ normal.

He dumped his uniform in a vacant corner near the kitchen, figuring he'd scrub it clean when he had more energy, before he gave the sandwich on the side a vacant stare. No, there was no hunger there at all; if he was honest, he couldn't remember what being well-fed felt like, so how could he tell if he was hungry or not?. He hunched over on himself, taking the moment of quiet to look about the apartment - not in the same way he did when he first entered, no, this time it was sheer curiosity. How Steve lived in the 21st century, the possessions he had, how he laid out the living space. But even then, Bucky struggled to make the connection. He felt he should be comparing it to Steve's home in Brooklyn but he just couldn't remember what it looked like. He couldn't even remember what his _own_ home looked like.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought, he slid into the kitchen chair that Steve had been in before and leaned his chin onto his right knuckles. In the silence, Bucky simply sat and ran back through the events of the day. He frowned intently at his mechanical hand, listening to the click and whirr of servos and metal joints in the silence as he systematically pressed the thumb to each of his fingers. Concentrating on the faint noise helped him focus, his right thumb scratching at the stubble under his chin as he lost himself in thought. Twelve hours ago he was lost and intended to stay that way. He had contemplated sleeping in the most run down of hovels to stay off anyone's radar. Not even six hours ago he was found, and not only found but he was almost caught. And both of them were almost killed because he let his guard down. _Stupid. Stupid, wet-behind the ears, rookie mistake_.

He was definitely overtired now as he allowed himself to get so distracted by the mechanical noises of his own hand and arm flexing and recalibrating that he barely registered the return of the man whose table he was sitting at. He was too busy trying to figure out what exactly had happened, why he had chosen to hang around and return instead of just vanishing to collapse in some abandoned building like he'd done so many times before. He knew Steve was there, but he wasn't entirely sure how to proceed.

* * *

Perhaps Bucky thought it was unacceptable that he didn't notice Steve returning right away, that exhaustion was overtaking him too much, but the truth was that Steve spent about two full minutes in the door, arms folded, leaning against the wall with a shoulder to keep his weight off his injured leg, and just… watched. It was different from earlier now; the shower had helped him calm down, and though he was still thoroughly exhausted, there was an odd sort of contentment in him now, one he couldn't possibly explain. Bucky seemed to do something with his left hand; Steve could hear the metallic buzz as the small artificial joints moved, and he looked, mesmerized. He'd experienced first-hand just what that arm was capable of, and how Bucky wielded it with magnificent ease. This was the first time that they weren't fighting, neither against each other, nor side by side, and Steve could finally take a moment to just take it in for what it really was; more than an arm, less than a weapon (though Bucky probably wouldn't have agreed with that).

There was a small part of him that still wondered if the sole reason Bucky was here now was because of this tiredness. If he'd be gone tomorrow, more clear-minded, realizing that he was free to go (of course he was, Steve wouldn't actually hold him back by force), and that perhaps it was better if he left, if he didn't want to end up being questioned by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (or whatever they were going to be called now). But Steve couldn't help but hope, that there was something _more_ underneath, the same _something_ that had compelled Bucky not to run for his own life (he _could_ have gotten away), but to stay and make sure Steve and Natasha got out alive.

He had more questions than what could be asked at this moment, that was quite clear, at least. When he finally decided to step forward, making the other look up, in a motion so clearly unlike him, Steve had to wonder if he would even be capable of standing up from that chair, he cast the questions away, and frowned. The food was still on the counter, untouched – maybe Bucky really was too tired to eat, but he would have to, later on. If he wasn't hungry, though, then why had he stayed up, just sitting here in place, waiting for who knew what? Waiting for Steve, maybe. That kind of made sense, but it also kind of made Steve uneasy, he didn't want to play polite when they were both worn (and otherwise).

"You look like you're ready to fall asleep right there, sitting up," he said, and maybe he was just too far gone to be upset about anything anymore, but he managed to sound nothing but soft and kind – it was the kind of voice he kept solely for the people closest to him; Peggy, lately Natasha, sometimes Sam and Sharon. Bucky didn't need to _earn_ it; he was getting it by default. "I have more comfortable places to do that, c'mon."

He held out a hand, though he half expected it to either be ignored, or brushed away. He held it in a way that it could be taken with either hand Bucky chose, if he chose at all. His leg wasn't trembling anymore, even if he felt he was on the verge of trembling in his whole body, and he did _not_ ask whether the other would still be here when he woke next, even if there was nothing else that would have kept him from a mostly sleepless night than the answer. He'd never slept a lot, and always lightly; even if he picked the hardest surface (which he probably couldn't, with someone else around), even after all this mess, he doubted he'd get more than four or five hours.

"You can have the bed, if you want to." He didn't want to say it, but he knew Bucky would never accept this unless he admitted the truth, at least part of it. "I wouldn't sleep in it anyway, I usually don't, so."

* * *

He was used to being watched. It was why he hated being stared at so much, it was the awful _familiarity_ of being observed by both his handlers and people that would eventually pay HYDRA for the Winter Soldier's services in exchange for loyalty and influence. Eventually he had learned to tune it out - he always performed with ruthless efficiency, even with an audience, but that didn't mean he had to like having one. Ignoring them became a second nature that it matter how many wipes they did, it wouldn't erase. And that's what he did with Steve. Oh, he knew he was there - he was kind of hard to miss even when his attention was elsewhere (though it perhaps took him longer to notice him than he would've liked to admit). But he simply chose not to acknowledge it for the time being. He was almost in a trance, lost to the mechanical sounds on his left and the white noise of his own thoughts. He had begun working his wrist, flexing the joint and testing the angles. It hadn't been checked over by anyone since before the helicarriers, what he was doing in Steve's kitchen was just his usual routine. He didn't however, want to think on how easily he'd slipped into it - nor how it normally took hours of perimeter checks for him to feel safe enough to do it, whereas in the apartment he'd felt safe enough to just sit and work. Perhaps he was just exhausted.

The sudden movement out of the corner of his eye stopped all activity and he lifted his head from his knuckles, fixing Steve with a mute stare before he frowned in thought. "I've slept in worse places." He shrugged, his tone non-committal. He did, however, lean backwards slightly as the hand was offered. He frowned at it before looking up at Steve with a single eyebrow arched. The palm of his left hand landed on the tabletop with a clatter and he rose with a speed that was deceptive, given how bone-weary he really was. Clearly of no need for the hand. This wasn't, Bucky figured, like the helicopter - he wasn't injured and hadn't all but _collapsed_ like Steve had.

It was getting to the stage where Bucky found that listening to Steve's voice - or any loud noise - was actually making his _eyeballs_ ache. His ears had gone way past sensitivity and sending signals to his brain, they were now just bouncing sounds around his skull. He squinted when Steve mentioned the bed, commenting internally that the man probably never used it and feeling rightly vindicated when the thought was confirmed as accurate. That left a dilemma, because Bucky wasn't one for beds either. Too soft, too warm. "Yeah I…don't normally do beds either." To his credit, he managed to sound more apologetic than tired - which was a feat, all things considered. "Just…gimme a pillow and I'll sleep on the floor." Another shrug, just like the first. It was about the most extravagant movement he could manage at the moment.

He took in a breath and let out a deep sigh. "Look, I'm not entirely sure how this is going to work out." He spoke with hesitance, his eyes dropping down to the tabletop as he picked out his next turn of phrase carefully. "I don't really know where to go after here, that safe house was my last real lead and it turned out to be a trap." He shook his head, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. "It's obvious now that HYDRA are done fuckin' around. I'm expendable, an asset with no value. A broken weapon they can't fix." He was rambling, he _knew_ he was rambling, but he couldn't seem to stop. He needed the man beside him to know this, even if he couldn't quite figure out why. "Это смешно." He growled at himself, fighting the urge to pace. "I don't want to put you in danger, but I'm not exactly sure what to do next." He could run again, catch a few hours sleep and be suited and out the door before Steve could realise. But Bucky found himself violently disliking that idea. So he was left looking at the man who claimed to be his best friend for ideas, completely at a loss.

* * *

Steve didn't take offense when his hand wasn't accepted. He mostly hadn't expected it to; it was an offer he felt was needed to be made, but this was a very slow kind of step-by-step process, he had known that from the very start. He simply let it drop back by his side, and watched as Bucky rose into a standing position. There was a similar kind of noncommittal expression on his face upon the declination of the bed – that, too, had been expected, though not entirely for the same reasons. Either way, Steve definitely wasn't going to force the issue; they were both soldiers, it was probably a similarly alien prospect, and he had no intention of making the other uncomfortable.

A pillow on the floor – the thought brought a small smile to his lips, but he decided not to speak the thought that occurred to him. _Well, if it doesn't bring back memories._ It probably didn't for Bucky, anyway, and the meaning was entirely different, too – still, Steve allowed the smile to linger for a couple of seconds, before focusing his entire attention on the other again. He'd actually had half a mind to go and fetch the aforementioned pillows, when he realized Bucky wasn't finished speaking, and he turned back to him, an eyebrow arched, wondering where he was going with that line of thought.

"You're not putting me in danger," he said firmly, "so get that out of your head. Well, or at least, not in any _more_ danger than the amount I would get myself into anyway, so overall it's irrelevant." Bucky had to realize this himself, too; Steve had gone there, to that safe house, without an inkling that Bucky would be there. The trouble they got into there wasn't Bucky's fault, and Steve was not going to let him take the blame for it. What would have been the point of putting blame on anyone, anyway? They'd all gotten out of it, if not completely safely, at least alive. That was enough for Steve, and he hoped it was enough for Bucky.

He contemplated for a second or two before continuing. He really wanted to just say _please don't leave_ , but it would have sounded a lot more desperate than rational, and he managed to rein in the urge, force himself to at least try and think logically. The sheer fact that it was almost impossible in his current state of mind to think logically, however, also provided him with the answer.

"I don't think either of us is currently capable of making any sort of decision like that," he concluded his fuzzy thoughts in a surprisingly coherent sentence. "I – you know I'd like you to stay, for multiple reasons, but I don't know where that road leads either, and I'm not gonna make that choice for you, 'cause it wouldn't be fair, even if I were coherent enough to do it. So I'm just gonna get some pillows, and – and we can deal with what comes later when it's later. Хорошо?"

* * *

Pillow on the floor. His thoughts wandered back to that and he couldn't quite figure out why. It was a memory, it always was, but everything was so messy inside his head that the connections needed to actually _remember_ it were still to be made. There must've been something specific about it, however, as Steve had smiled and looked…like Bucky was missing something. Something important, but not vital, another piece of the puzzle he was missing.

Then the moment was over and all that was left to do was listen. Considering what he had said used up pretty much all of his brainpower for the evening, listening without comment was all he was capable of. Had he still had the energy and drive for it, he would have argued on more than one of the points raised. As it stood, he simply let Steve say his piece in silence.

And it wasn't like what he said was totally invalid. Neither of them had the mental capacity to think clearly even if they wanted to. Bucky had been tired before, he could remember the absolute bone-weary feeling during the war - back when he thought that at least Steve was safe at home (though why those memories resurfaced then was a mystery). Now though, now was a new level. It was the result of well over a week, possibly two, of little-to-no sleep - a few hours snatched here and there when he knew he was safe. And what meagre rations he could find at the various HYDRA safe houses and dead drops he raided, along with the few smaller meals he could afford with what money he could steal, did nothing to aid his energy levels.

To his credit, Steve came across much more coherent than Bucky felt. He let his gaze drop to the floor when the other mentioned that he'd like him to stay, not quite knowing if he wanted to stay or not. There was a conflict of emotions there, drawn out and strained by sheer exhaustion and Bucky had little doubt a clearer head would help. The Russian, however, did grab his attention and he blinked dumbly for a moment before a helpful voice in his head supplied that he'd learned it in the war. All the Howling Commandos had, to a degree, but only Steve had become fluent in it. Though Bucky figured that his own rivalled - if not surpassed - Steve's grasp now. Too tired to think much more on it, he merely shrugged and gave a weary nod. "Да. Хорошо."

* * *

Steve had absolutely no idea how much Bucky remembered now, but he was certainly not up for guessing games right now. He wondered if the confused stare he was getting was due to the Russian, or to the rest of what he had proposed, but then Bucky replied, two small words, and Steve allowed his shoulders to slouch a little with relief. "Just a second, then." It was easier to switch back into English; he was fluent, yes, but he hadn't actually used it since the war, and he would have needed to get into practicing again before he could switch back to the kind of ease when he could actually _think_ in it instead of translating in his head. Small words were easy, but anything else, he simply didn't have the mental capacities.

He turned and trudged to the bedroom he scarcely used. He was favouring his unharmed leg a bit, but it probably wasn't very blatant to anyone who didn't know he'd been injured, didn't know what to look for. Bucky was the exception, of course, but Steve wasn't expecting any sort of comment. He thought he would be mostly fine by the next day, anyway.

The shutters were closed almost all the way down, save for the tiny dots punctuating the plastic of it. In that tiny light, Steve almost fell over a shoe he'd left on the floor, and had to spend a second or two just standing at the foot of the bed waiting for the pounding of his head that had started at the sudden movement he'd made to subside. He wasn't sure why he was feeling _this_ weary; he'd gone longer periods without sleep, he'd been in more dangerous situations. Of course, to a regular person, his sleep schedule would have still seemed crazy, but for him, the fact that he'd slept three full hours two days before seemed a valid reason not to be tired. No – it had to do with something else, and as he finally grabbed two pillows from the bed, he realized that it was Bucky's presence, somehow. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to put words to it, and he knew he was quite early in making an assumption of whether the other would stay, and how much of him was really Bucky and not the Winter Soldier – but Steve couldn't help feeling the way he did; feeling like he'd gotten back a long-lost friend, someone who had left a space behind himself that nothing and nobody else could fill. That feeling was what somehow made him feel like he was relaxing muscles he hadn't even realized he'd flexed; it was a more comfortable, more content sort of tiredness, as if he'd _arrived_ somewhere that finally had the potential of being called a _home_.

When he returned to the living room, Bucky was still standing where he had been when Steve left, and if he hadn't looked like he was about to fall asleep standing up, Steve might have laughed at it. Some eighty years ago, he would have thrown the pillow at his head to startle him awake, _hey, you know only horses and cows sleep like that_ , but he simply held one of the pillows out this time, waited until it was taken from him, and then tossed the other down onto the floor, and eased himself into a sitting position before laying down on his stomach. His leg felt quite grateful to finally not be under pressure of his weight, and he cast out the thoughts regarding anything nostalgic from his head for now – knowing he would most likely dream of their Brooklyn days anyway.

* * *

Bucky watched Steve leave with a slightly tilted head and a vague, passing curiosity. The part of his brain that was still the Soldier analysed the walk and picked out weak spots for a quick and effective takedown, but they were muted and overruled by the rest. Both because the man was no longer a mission - _'aborted; target saved'_ \- and the fact he was almost too tired to move. Either way, he noted the way that Steve moved and that the wound was obviously still an issue - but he couldn't remember how fast his recovery speed was, that detail was still lost in the fog. Regardless, as the man vanished into the bedroom, Bucky switched off.

While he doubted he could actually _sleep_ upright, he could come pretty damn close. The white noise in his head droned out the faint background sounds of the city seeping through the windows and while his eyes remained open, his vision was lost in some middle-distance haze. Like most things, he struggled to recall the last time he felt so incredibly at ease in his surroundings. But there were images, passing glimpses of his past life; smells, sounds, the occasional unbidden thought that was both his and not his. A hot summer afternoon, the cloying smell of a city baking in the sun, the shouts of the local kids playing nearby. Small apartment, windows open, no breeze. ' _I hate summer, Steve_ ' a complaint, groaned but said with a smile. Pillows on the floor.

It was instinct that caused Bucky to flinch when the pillow appeared in his unfocused line of sight. Not because it was a sudden appearance, nor the fact that his brain was working as fast as molasses in midwinter and registered it a few moments after it appeared. It was more a knee-jerk reaction from that past he had been pulled from. The pillow that should have been thrown at him, rather than offered. But had it been thrown, then it would've been the Soldier that responded. Bucky wasn't sure which one was worse. Mentally shaking himself out of his stupor, he mutely took the pillow and pressed his flesh hand into it as he watched Steve get comfortable on the floor.

Not quite used to proximity (sleeping somewhere safe, or just _sleeping_ for that matter), Bucky dropped his pillow a good distance away from Steve, just out of arm's reach. Only then did he let the exhaustion take over, his legs buckling under him and refusing to let him stand any longer. He didn't know if he would actually be able to sleep, but to simply _rest_ was a welcome thing. He mirrored Steve's actions but there was an extra sense that he had simply flopped onto his pillow, rather than eased onto it. Laying on his stomach, his cheek buried deep into the soft, clean pillow but looking away from Steve, only then did Bucky realise how exhausted he truly was from the fact he could barely move anymore. It would, however, be a good half hour before he actually managed to fall into a sleep so deep even the usual nightmares didn't reach him.

* * *

It didn't take long for Steve to fall asleep. It took shorter than any time before that he could recall, actually. From an objective point of view, it was really stupid – he should have been _more_ wary, not _less_. Still, he had trusted Bucky with his life back at the safehouse when he had been in possession of all his wits, so now that he was too tired to think, he could even less make himself think of the other as the Winter Soldier. He was laying next to Bucky – even if the other had made sure to stay rather far away – and he was feeling more content than he had in decades. He rolled onto his back, threw an arm across his own face, and was fast asleep within a matter of five minutes. A record, truly.

He woke abruptly, but still progressively; not knowing what had woken him, but not being awake enough to take in his surroundings either. For about ten seconds, he imagined a ceiling fan with one of its three sides broken, plaster missing in big chunks from the ceiling, a small, almost un-heatable apartment in Brooklyn. His best friend was snoring next to him. "Bucky, shut the fuck up, I'm trying to sleep," he muttered, and it was perhaps the sound of his own voice that finally brought him fully awake.

He was in Washington DC, there was no plaster missing, he had central heating and air conditioning (the latter was on, actually, an almost indistinctive, low buzz in the background), and…

… his best friend was snoring next to him.

Perhaps he still wasn't a hundred percent awake (or at least, he would certainly blame it on that later on, if necessary), but he allowed his lips to curl into a mischievous, yet nostalgic smile, scooted a bit on the floor until the other was within reach, and prodded him in the side with his bare foot. "Roll over, you jerk, before the entire neighbourhood wakes up." And then – just to be on the safe side – he moved back to his previous position as quickly as he could, potentially out of arm's reach.

* * *

Once comfortable, Bucky never moved. Even as a kid, he'd never fidgeted much and when he slept, he was pretty much an unconscious log. In the past, he turned once - perhaps twice - a night before falling back into the stillness that helped him become the skilled sniper he was. Even when he couldn't sleep, he didn't toss and turn. And when exhaustion overcome him, as it had done, it was even less of a motivation. So even when he was still drifting, in that heady place between sleep and awake, he was immobile. And even though he couldn't _see_ Steve beside him he was aware the man had turned over and fallen asleep quickly.

When sleep eventually did claim him, he seemed to bypass the lighter sleep he was accustomed to and instead he was lost in a deep sleep he'd not had in decades. Not since before the war. Truly unaware of the world at large thanks to his instincts declaring that he was ultimately _safe_ , he balled his fists into the fabric of the pillow and dreamed so deep there was no chance he'd be able to remember it on waking.

There was a voice there, however, a mutter off to his side. Something that pulled him out of the abyss and into some beige dreamland. A run-down apartment in Brooklyn, small and insignificant but _important_. So important. A broken ceiling fan, lazily spiralling above and doing nothing, cracked plaster and the faint smell of dust. Lazy sunlight through uneven blinds.

A toe jabbing into the soft, fleshy part of his side.

Bucky groaned, both in his dream and in real life, at Steve's griping but did as asked anyway. "Sorry…" both young Bucky and the man with the metal arm said at once, huffing as they lifted themselves - with great effort - off their stomach and onto their side. Then the darkness fell back inwards and the small apartment vanished as Bucky fell back into a dreamless abyss. Now with his back towards Steve, and managing to sprawl out and look vaguely uncomfortable, hair a mess about his face, Bucky fell still again.

* * *

Well, that wasn't what Steve had been expecting, not in the slightest. He had to press his face into his pillow to keep himself from laughing out loud, but still his lips pulled into a smile so wide, if he stayed like that for a while, his cheeks would hurt. For a while, he stayed like that, just watching Bucky, now with his back to Steve, through half-lidded eyes, waiting to fall back asleep now that it was blissfully silent.

Only to realize, as the minutes passed, that that was _not happening_.

With a soft sigh (which would have been a groan if he didn't fear waking Bucky up), he rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling for a few additional minutes, hoping for the impossible. It had always been like this; even if he did manage to fall asleep by some miracle, it only worked as long as he wasn't disturbed, it couldn't happen twice in a row. Not even with Bucky around. Steve now didn't feel as weary, though he wasn't as well-rested as he could have been either.

Finally giving up, he got up as quietly as possible, picking up the blanket and dropping it on the couch on his way to the kitchen. The clock on the microwave's door blinked at him, cool and green, and he rubbed at his eyes before reading the numbers. 3:21. That meant he'd slept, what, three hours? Almost four? That wasn't even actually bad. With a stifled yawn, Steve filled a mug with cold milk, and settled himself at the kitchen table, resting his cheek in his palm, and staring out at the city spread below that he could see fairly well through the window. Dawn was just beginning to crack; the sun hadn't come up yet, but it wasn't entirely dark anymore either. Steve let his mind wander, hoping Bucky wasn't going to just up and leave once he too decided he'd slept enough.

* * *

The second half wasn't quite as dreamless as the first. In hindsight, Bucky was glad he was able to sleep as long as he was without the nightmares. And even when the dreams did come, they weren't as hellish as they had been. But that didn't mean they were good, either. Memories rammed together to created twisted stories, the Soldier overlapped with his life in Brooklyn. Horror stories made from bits of his past, ugly and twisted and filled with regret. Some nights he woke up screaming, other times he woke up crying. On the floor of Steve's apartment, he did neither.

After turning over, it took about another hour for the dreams to hit. The normally still sleeper twitched, sometimes violently, muttered Russian curses hissed under his breath and occasionally let slip a whimper he'd never admit to making in his waking state. But something nagged at his subconscious as he exited the deep sleep; dreams tainted by a shadow at his back that was both there and not there. It hadn't been there before and it came and went like the wind. Reassuring and stable when there, cold and chaotic when absent. But every time Bucky turned to look, every time he tried to pinpoint what it was, he was met by a thunderclap. A memory of searing agony as lightning shot through his brain.

He woke suddenly.

From comatose to ramming speed in the blink of an eye, Bucky was off the floor and into a fighting stance in a matter of seconds. He still wasn't fully awake, but all nerves were firing at once. The sudden rush made his heart pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins bringing everything into sharp focus despite the haze of sleep(and everything else) in his head. ' _Steve's apartment. Brooklyn? No, DC. Safe.'_ He went through a mental check-list as he slowly regained his footing in the present and relaxed enough to sag.

And he really did sag, the ache of working on tired muscles finally catching up with him after heaven knows how long. With a groan, he massaged the ugly seam where metal met flesh and looked about the apartment, pausing when he saw Steve already up. He frowned, eyes drifting to the blinking numbers off to one side before returning to the other. "Why're you 'wake?" His voice was thick with sleep and half mumbled but got his point across.

* * *

Steve could just see the back of Bucky's head from where he was sitting, and for a while, he just watched him in silence. For once, he allowed himself something he'd been refusing for a long time; he let his mind reel back in memories he'd been shanting to the side, refusing to acknowledge their existence, for they featured someone Steve had thought was lost to him forever. But that someone was now sleeping on his apartment floor, and he watched him, seeing instead both of them much younger, from long, long decades ago.

He was pulled back into the present when Bucky became restless in his sleep, but still he didn't move from his spot; he supposed that the other needed the sleep even if it was riddled with unpleasant dreams, and he didn't fancy startling the other awake and getting potentially injured in the process. Besides, it didn't look as bad as he thought it could have been. Steve had his own fair share of nightmares, and he'd seen his own face volumes worse in the bathroom mirror on multiple occasions around this early time of the day.

He did rise, however, when Bucky suddenly sprang to his feet; he wasn't even sure if the other was fully awake or not – it looked like he wasn't, but at the same time, he looked startled and _dangerous_. "Bucky – " But the other was relaxing already, sooner than Steve could have appropriately worded his thoughts. _It's me. You're okay. We're safe._ It seemed that the other processed the same information on his own (and a part of Steve, at the back of his mind, was irrationally happy about the thought that the other was still willing to relax in his company), and Steve allowed himself to sink back into his chair, fingers wrapping around his now almost fully empty mug. He followed Bucky's gaze to the clock on the microwave – past six already? He wouldn't have thought –, then let out a small chuckle, and raised a foot to push the chair opposite of him out from under the table, inviting the other closer without words.

"Why, because I have the unfortunate habit of not being able to fall back asleep once I wake up, and _someone_ was snoring like a _locomotive_." He let go of the mug, and leaned back in his chair, stretching until he could hear the satisfying **pop!** and feel the middle of his spine ease up from its cramped state. "Want some coffee?"

* * *

Bucky squinted at Steve as he padded softly over to the vacant chair, removing his hand from his chest long enough to pull it out enough to sit on before lifting it back to where it had been before. Still not completely awake but far less groggy than before. "I don't _snore,_ " he grumbled, flopping into the seat with a tired huff. It was an age-old non-argument they'd had countless times. Normal morning banter from way back when - only now the words came out on their own and Bucky was still too full of sleep to overthink them.

He let out another groan as he flexed his left shoulder, the mechanics whining loudly as it recalibrated from being in one position for most of the night before it fell back into it's normal silence. Bucky sprawled out on the chair, a long yawn overtaking him as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. "Coffee sounds real good," he managed, eventually, the yawn subsiding and leaving him feeling rather boneless.

He ran a hand through his hair, or at least tried to. He'd fallen asleep while it was still wet and, as such, it had dried in every position imaginable. Grunting and muttering curses from every language he knew under his breath, he worked his fingers through the knots before letting his hand drop to his face, rubbing his right cheek. He hummed in thought, eyes closed and 'brows furrowing as he worked through his thought processes from the previous day.

It was all a bit of a blur, what had happened and how he'd end up sitting at Steve's kitchen table. It wasn't a bad thing, but it wasn't exactly what he had been planning. If he was honest, he wasn't even sure he had been ready to face the man opposite until it happened. But Bucky couldn't exactly complain about how it had happened, all things considered. His hand not leaving his cheek but his elbow finding the tabletop, he leaned heavily and cracked his left eye to fix Steve with a heavily-lidded gaze. "I s'pose your superiors'll wanna talk t'me."

* * *

"Yeah, right," Steve said, grinning; the out-of-the-textbook response he'd always given, it came without thinking now. Teasing aside, he really didn't mind – he'd still slept more than he did on average, and for some reason he couldn't fathom (for he couldn't quite _dare_ to think it was because of who he'd been sleeping next to), it had been more refreshing than usual, too.

He waited for the response before standing up to make coffee for both of them. This time around, he paid no heed to the metal arm whatsoever. It was a little odd, how easily he got used to the thought of it. When he had first caught sight of it, it had been a formidable weapon, something to fear – though, obviously, part of that kind of mindset had been the fact that he'd been choked almost to the verge of passing out by it – then, eventually, it was just something foreign, a reminder of how much things had changed, how much Bucky had changed. That, too, was a thought Steve had allowed to pass, the last remnants of it maybe exactly the previous night, when he had been watching from the doorway as Bucky went through the mechanics of it. Now, it was simply a part of his best friend. Perhaps unusual and, from some aspects, unpleasant, but nothing more than a fact of life; the life they had _now_.

Steve opened a cupboard and fished out two mugs, setting them both underneath the tap of the coffee machine, then pressed a few buttons. The thing buzzed to life, and he turned around to face Bucky again, leaning against the counter's edge with the back of his hip, palms settled on top. He couldn't fully hold back the small smile at the sight of the other trying to tame his hair; he'd always had a knack of ending up with spectacular bedheads, even when his hair had been shorter. The smile only diminished when a question was asked, and the blond man's eyebrows furrowed slightly as he contemplated the question.

Indeed, it was no question that there would be numerous questions asked. There was a part of Steve that felt inherently uncomfortable about it, yet at the same time, he knew there was no way they could evade this forever. Rubbing at the back of his head, he ran the events of the previous day through his head again, arriving to a conclusion that he had known the day before already; that there hadn't been a single thing either of them could have – or would have – done differently, and, all things considered, they'd come out of it fairly well. He also made a mental note to make a phone call regarding Natasha's health, once it wasn't such an ungodly hour. Still, the previous day wasn't only what Bucky was referring to, and ultimately, there was only one answer Steve could give.

"I think so, yes." He allowed a small hint of a smile to flicker across his face, and added, with the undying stubbornness of the kid from Brooklyn, "Though technically I don't really _have_ superiors anymore…"

* * *

Even with only one eye half-open and most of his face covered by unruly hair, Bucky still managed to give Steve a look that was distinctly unimpressed at the answer. There was no heat there, no anger or irritation, just a tired and unspoken _'yeah right'._ With a lazy exhale, Bucky lifted his head from his hand long enough to fold his fingers so that he could rest his cheekbone on his knuckles. Blinking away the sleep as he opened both eyes, he stifled another yawn and let his gaze drift to the inky liquid pouring into the cups. "Yeah. Because you were at that safe house totally on your own accord, complete with two agents _and_ the Black Widow." He raised an eyebrow in Steve's direction, attention returning to the man with a sceptical look.

He let out an unhappy noise, closing his eyes and bringing his left hand up to rub the spot between his eyebrows in a futile effort to fight the headache that was forming. "That's not something 'm looking forward to." He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between metal fingers. "It's not like I even have any answers to give them. Fuck, some mornings it's still difficult to remember my own name."

Though the 'mornings' part was mostly a lie. It was easier to say that than 'when I wake up after collapsing for a few hours from sleep deprivation'. The second part wasn't entirely true either, he could just about remember his name - he held on to 'Bucky' for dear life, even when James Barnes was out of reach - but everything else? Those days were rare and, thankfully, becoming less common. They were filled with panic, irrational anger and volatility which made him exceptionally dangerous. Those were the days where the Winter Soldier was the most visible, and it absolutely terrified him.

The smell of the coffee pulled him out of his thoughts and he let his left hand drop to the tabletop with a clatter that caused him to frown at it. No glove. There was a reason why he always wore a fingerless glove on that hand and he vaguely remembered taking it off before the shower. He removed his head from his knuckles and leaned back slightly, eyeing the pile of his clothes in the corner of the room with a passive expression. He pulled a face, deciding he'd go looking for it later - he wasn't awake enough to mess around with that kind of trivial thing anyway. He wasn't awake enough to deal with anything much, if he was honest. Instead, he watched his fingers knot together on tabletop in front of him and let another yawn escape him as he tried to ignore the growing headache behind his eyes.

* * *

Steve allowed his lips to quirk up into a small, almost defiant smile. The other did have a point – S.H.I.E.L.D. or not, he did still work for them, with Natasha, too; it wasn't like they had anything better to do. Steve usually chose not to think about whether this made him into a mercenary; he did what he knew how to do, lived off of it, and did his best to at least pick the part of the job that didn't clash horribly with his morales. His job was the least on the list of things that sometimes made him wonder how much longer he could continue to live with himself. On the other hand, the question of the chain of command was murky at best now, and, while some may have frowned at Captain America, Steve had no problem using it to his own advantage. He had done so before, after all (and he'd turned out to be right, too). There were worse things he'd done for Bucky, anyway. More important things he had risked; his life, for instance.

"I could try to delay that for a while," he offered, his tone even. He took his eyes off his friend and turned towards the coffee machine again, which was now beginning to bleep, signaling it was finished. In a matter of a couple of seconds, Steve grabbed couple of spoons, as well as a container of sugar and some milk from the fridge, placing it all on the tabletop in front of Bucky, as well as the mug of coffee he'd made for him. He then sat back down opposite him, taking a sip from his own mug, the coffee in it hot and empty, just as bitter as he'd always had it since before the war.

He took a moment before raising his gaze to the other again, wondering what he might think of such an offer, if he thinks anything at all. He remembered what he'd said the previous night, about not wanting to put Steve in danger – but then he dismissed the thought again, just like he'd dismissed it earlier. There were things that mattered to Captain America, and then there were things that mattered to Steve Rogers, and when the two interests clashed, for the longest time, he had always forced himself to pick the former, to disregard himself. Now, he wasn't so sure he was willing to do it again. Perhaps, sometime in the future, he would be ready to do it again, but right now, the thought was unbearable; just as unbearable as it had been to be told that Bucky's unit was gone, that he couldn't do anything, he was to merely follow orders, sit on his ass and play circus monkey while his best friend was probably tortured, maybe killed if Steve didn't do anything. So, he had done something, and he was determined to do something similar now, because there was only so much he could take.

Still a little dazed himself, given how he'd only gotten a handful of hours of sleep, Steve stared back down into his coffee mug, and allowed himself to space out for a second while waiting for Bucky to mull over his options. "I want to make sure Nat is okay, before anything, though," he added in a vague voice.

* * *

Bucky was silent for a long moment as he considered the offer. While he really just wanted it over and done with in a lot of respects, he had also gone through all the possible outcomes in his head. That was one of the many reasons he'd been so hesitant to make contact with Steve - because of what he was attached to and how _they_ would react. He lifted a hand, running a thumb along his bottom lip in thought, eyes tracing the grain of the wood of the table but not really seeing. Huffing out a faint sigh, his eyebrows twitched inwards as he ran through all the possible scenarios in his head. None of them were overly positive. "I'd appreciate it if you could…" He trailed off, coming to the conclusion that Steve's superiors - whoever they were now - had waited this long, they could wait a little longer.

There was a muttered 'thanks' as the coffee was placed in front of him, but he just stared at it for a while, a growing frown of confusion building. Bucky absolutely refused to look at Steve, instead he chewed on his bottom lip until his face crumpled in defeat. With a sharp exhale, he ran a hand down his face. "I don't…" he paused, wincing. "I don't remember how I took it." It was one of those small things that frustrated and annoyed him; the fact that it was just another thing - something small and insignificant - he couldn't remember. Rolling his eyes and shrugging, he concluded it was just best to figure it out by trying it. He instantly regretted trying it with nothing in it and as soon as he tried his first mouthful he grimaced and put the cup back down. "Well it wasn't straight."

He fiddled with the spoon in the sugar bowl for a moment, giving Steve an expression that hovered between concern and confidence. "Natalia's a lot stronger than she looks. I'm sure she's fine." A pause, no longer than a heartbeat. "I'd love to know what the fuck it was they took her down with though." Because there was a good chance that because it kept _her_ down for a good few hours, that in the state he was in yesterday there was every likelihood it would've taken _him_ down for a while as well. Sedation was tricky with him - didn't always work and never for long - whatever it was that hit Nat was strong and probably meant for him.

Bucky added two spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee before stirring and tasting. It wasn't nearly as sweet as he would've liked, but he decided it was enough. He took a mouthful before wrapping his flesh fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into his palm. Wetting his lips, he looked into the black depths of his coffee and chose his words carefully. "You have questions. 'M not sure I have answers…but I can try, at least. It's better than sittin' here in silence."

* * *

Steve simply nodded in response this time; he'd already offered, and now he confirmed wordlessly when the offer was taken up. Eventually, this was something they – Bucky himself, really – needed to tackle, a hurdle to overcome, but there was no real hurry, not in Steve's point of view, anyway. If they had waited this long, they could wait a while longer, while Bucky gathered himself a bit more. There were obviously a lot more memories to retrieve, and not just about whether he drank his coffee empty – Steve had to fight back a smile as he watched him contemplate (he knew it wouldn't have been appreciated, but somehow, it made him feel inexplicably _cozy_ ; it was so _mundane_ , the two of them sitting here and drinking coffee – what he wouldn't have given for this in the past few years).

"… No, it wasn't," he agreed in a light voice, but by then, Bucky was reaching for the sugar, and Steve decided not to comment further. Perhaps this was of more importance to Bucky than Steve would have thought – he dared not to guess wrong. "But some say your tastes may take a complete U-turn every seven years anyway." He sloshed his own empty coffee around in his mug, finally allowing the corner of his lips to quirk up, and he couldn't hold his thoughts back anymore. "Coffee was the least of things you liked disgustingly sweet, for the record."

He only looked up again when the topic was changed, and his mind wandered back to Natasha. Truthfully, he had the same question in his mind that Bucky was now voicing, and he frowned at him in response, chewing a bit on his bottom lip. "If your assumption that the trap was originally intended for you is correct, then it would be safe to assume that it was something strong enough for _you_ , as well," he stated in a flat voice. Despite how much faith the other seemed to have in Natasha's abilities, Steve couldn't help but worry. Of course, he had no way of knowing what kind of a serum it was that worked in Bucky's veins, but if his own was anything to go by, a sedative that could have taken him down could have, in fact, very easily killed an ordinary human being, let alone someone like Natasha, who, in spite of being very skilled, was still thin of stature, and therefore more vulnerable against this kind of thing.

The offer caught him off guard for a moment; he blinked at the other, then, to gain a bit of time while he thought his options over, he continued drinking his coffee. Questions? What kind of questions did he really have? He'd read the Winter Soldier's file, at least as much of it as S.H.I.E.L.D. had in its possession, and he saw little point in asking for details on any of that – he'd only needed the information to help him _find_ him, anyways, and that was obviously no longer necessary. Some of the other questions he had were things he didn't really know how to word. In the end, he picked a relatively easy one, something Bucky definitely would have an answer for – whether he chose to share it, though, was another matter altogether.

"I have," he began in a cautios voice, "a few fragments of what _feels_ like memory, but could just as well be some sort of wishful thinking, slash hallucination – of you pulling me out of the river." Well, that wasn't really a question. "Did that really happen?"

* * *

Bucky didn't comment on the coffee. He could quite easily have said how he hadn't been awake for much longer than a year - if that - over the course of seventy years. He could've said that the inch or so of hair that he'd lopped off during his shower last night was the same as what he'd left America with the day after the Stark Expo. Instead he merely smiled faintly at the mention of his obnoxiously sweet tooth and took another sip of coffee. The acid bite was something he figured he'd have to get used to, but it could still do with another spoonful of sugar.

Idly he played with a droplet of coffee that had dripped onto the tabletop, listening to Steve's response and nodding. They were obviously thinking along the same lines, that made it easier. What didn't help was the elephant in the room, and Bucky felt the need to address it. "I don't go down easy, 'bout as easily you I'd wager. I know Natalia's well under half my size and yeah, she was probably hit with what was meant for me." He wetted his lips, staring intently at his coffee. "Don't think I'm not worried 'bout her, Steve. We have a history, I know what kind of punishment she can take." Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he shook his head. "Whole damn thing was a clusterfuck."

He took another mouthful, holding the liquid on his tongue until felt the bitterness bite into his taste buds before swallowing. He knew the questions would come, he just wasn't sure what they would be - instead, he simply braced for impact.

The question that arrived was not what he was expecting and, in comparison to some of the things that had ran through his head, was competitively tame. Yet there was a lump forming in his throat that threatened his ability to speak. He swallowed thickly, licking his lips as he considered how to word his reply. That whole episode, from the helicarrier to the riverbanks to everything that followed, was a raw wound that hadn't even begun to scab over. Perhaps this was what it needed to start that process.

His eyes locked with Steve's over the tabletop. "Yes." His voice cracked over the one word answer and he cleared his throat, breaking eye contact. "Before you ask; no, I didn't know who you were then. I just knew that…it was what I needed to do." He stared at the woodgrain without seeing, frowning in thought. "I had failed my mission. The programming was failing and all I knew was that saving you was more important than anything, even if I didn't know why." His gaze was back on Steve's face, both tired and intense from under heavy eyebrows as he tried to gauge reaction.

* * *

Steve eyed Bucky playing with the droplet of coffee, his lips pressed together into a thin line that represented a mixture of worry and frustration. When the other finally responded, he simply gave a nod, then looked away. Before he realized what he was even doing, he had pulled his phone out of his pocket (he didn't remember when he'd picked it up, to be fair – he surely hadn't slept with it in there, probably grabbed it from the coffee table on his way to the kitchen hours earlier), and began to search for a name in it. The words _'we have a history'_ somehow hit a chord in him, one he didn't want to admit to out loud, but, while Bucky seemed to think Steve was taking offense at him seemingly not being worried, it was practically the opposite: the fact that he was worried about her, too, only seemed to amplify the anxiety pooling in the bottom of Steve's stomach.

He found the name he was looking for, and, chewing on his bottom lip absently, tapped out a text message to send. If he didn't get a response in a few minutes, he would call, but, for now, he didn't want to interrupt the flow of their conversation, not when the other had just offered to answer questions Steve wasn't sure he would have had the guts to ask otherwise. _I know what she can take_ , Bucky had said, and, to a certain extent, so did Steve. Of course, he hadn't known her in her Red Room days, but they'd been through some tough stuff together, and she seemed to emerge from everything, if not unscathed, then stronger for it.

When Bucky began to speak again, Steve dropped the phone on the tabletop, and gave the other his full attention. As the other relayed the fact that what seemed to be a recurring dream hovering on the edge of his subconscious at the time had indeed been _real_ , Steve could feel his throat tighten; he had to give himself a moment or two before he could reply. He didn't ask _why_ he'd done it, if he hadn't remembered at the time. Bucky had already more or less answered that question, and it wasn't hard to believe, not when it was the exact same thing Steve had been hoping for back there, on the helicarrier, in the moments when he had refused to fight him; it was the exact feeling he had hoped to ignite in the other, something stronger than even memories.

But then he remembered something much more recent – meeting him again just the previous day. How quick he had been to admit that he was holding a gun that could do no harm; how easily Steve's name had rolled off his tongue when he'd gotten frustrated with him. Even if it hadn't been clear in the first couple of moments, it had become so quite soon – things were vastly different. "So," he said in a quiet, soft voice, "how come you remembered me yesterday, then? Did it just… start coming back on its own after you left me on the riverbank?"

* * *

Bucky's gaze lingered on the phone; a dead-eyed and tired stare as he watched Steve's fingers move across the screen. He knew what the other was doing, that he was contacting someone about Nat's condition, and he idly wondered why he didn't call. For a brief moment, his attention turned to the clock on the microwave and the weak light coming in through the windows and he figured it was due to it still being stupid o'clock in the morning which stayed his friend's hand. Even so, as his eyes returned back to the phone, he couldn't help but feel a heavy stone sit heavy in his stomach over the entire situation. He was sure he could have done something differently, something that would've prevented Nat being sedated with heaven knows what. Something that would've prevented the civilian deaths when the building came down.

Perhaps he should've bolted when given the chance; it might have worked, even if he'd been captured in the process. As it stood, he wasn't exactly sure which was the lesser of two evils.

When Steve eventually spoke again, Bucky frowned at the tabletop. It was a task in itself to remember the events after the Potomac, even harder to remember things before it. Everything was a mess in his head, a fuzzy blur of emotions he'd not experienced in forever, memories that had rushed back and an absolute feeling of rage that bubbled under the surface of it all. He let out a low hum, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip as he considered the answer to Steve's question.

"It's…foggy," he said, eventually. He'd have to walk himself through his own thoughts verbally to get them to make sense. "My first thought was to return to my handlers. I did that. They were in a safe house, a meeting point. First memory came back when they reset my arm back into it's socket." He twitched slightly, muscle memory causing his right shoulder to jerk. "Brooklyn, I'd got my ass handed to me by a group of thugs that _you'd_ wound up, 'member?"

Bucky shot Steve a knowing glance through heavy, drawn down eyebrows, the ghost of a smile on his lips before it vanished and he continued, eyes dropping back down. "I killed the handlers, took what I could - casual clothes, money, weapons. Torched the place before I left. After that…everything was erratic. Like walls crumbling. Sometimes it was small, other times they were so vivid I couldn't move."

He paused, chewing on his bottom lip again. "I went to the Smithsonian eventually. More than once. It didn't always work." But sometimes it did. Memories of the war, of falling off the train. Of being strapped to gurneys. Of pain. He didn't mention those to Steve. "It's been…coming back ever since. Randomly, sometimes violently, in fragments." He pulled a face, strained and frustrated. "But I can't…I'm strugglin' to relate. The kid I see, he's _me_ , but I'm not _him_. Same with my memories of Natalia. The man she knew; _him_ , but not _me_. Do you understand?" He looked back at Steve then, hoping to see some form of comprehension there; if it made sense to the man in front of him, then maybe it can make sense to himself too.

* * *

As Steve set the phone down on the table, there was a momentary glance at Bucky just in the right moment to catch the emotion flickering across his face. It left Steve wondering, if the other blamed himself for what had happened to Natasha. He didn't like the thought. A lot of things had gone in a direction that neither of them had wanted, but it had been mostly out of their control, and while Steve loathed the memory of people under all that debris, and of Natasha unconscious, he didn't blame either Bucky or himself for such a turn of events. If there was someone to blame, it was HYDRA all over again. It was just one more addition to a list of ever-growing atrocities Steve wanted to get back at them for.

Either way, there was nothing he could do at the moment to alleviate their feelings on the matter; not until someone got back to him on Natasha's current condition. He tore his eyes away from the silent device now sitting in between them on the tabletop, and fixed it on Bucky again, and at the same time, he curled his fingers back around his coffee mug, momentarily forgetting that it didn't have anymore liquid in it, and just wanting to hold onto something.

His expression didn't betray any of his thoughts as Bucky was speaking; he managed to maintain a neutral face, but his stomach churned a little at the thought of the other returning to HYDRA willingly. It wasn't anything he'd hold against Bucky, but the sheer thought of him back there once more, after everything they had done to him, it was sickening. On the other hand, Steve knew all too well the feeling of needing some direction, _anything_ at all that would fill up the empty space of not knowing what one's life is still worth. It was nothing to fault Bucky for.

The first time he allowed his expression to shift a bit was when Bucky brought up Brooklyn. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not really. He simply nodded, not wanting to interrupt. _Typical_ , he thought to himself a little wryly, _that something like that is what you'd remember about me first_. But he had to admit it to himself that it really **was** typical; to him, to what Steve Rogers had always been, before or after Project Rebirth. But then Bucky continued on, and Steve's face melted back into showing nothing, except for concentration as he listened. _Him, but not me_ , Bucky was saying, and he could see it in his eyes that he really needed Steve to understand it. And Steve did, to a certain extent, at least with his mind – for there was no way he could ever get to know what it _felt_ like, not with his own memory being so good it was often a curse rather than anything else. But he understood the concept of having disconnected memories; he experienced it sometimes, thinking about things before the war, it was so far away now that it often felt like those days were some cardboard cutout of someone else's life; a someone else that had long since died, a skinny, sickly kid that wouldn't have lived to his forties anyway, and hadn't made it past training camp.

"Yeah," he murmured finally, knowing he had to say _something_ , in the end. "Maybe that feeling will come back, too, one day…" He wouldn't have put much faith in it, but there was always a possibility. "Or maybe it'll always feel like it was someone else's life." He tilted his head and offered a smile. "The fact that the memories are _there_ is a good start, though, isn't it?"

(That, and the fact that Bucky himself was here, sitting in Steve's kitchen and drinking his coffee. But he wasn't going to say that.)

* * *

As Bucky watched Steve's face, eyes never drifting from their razor-sharp focus, he realised that perhaps what he was asking for was a little too much, too soon. He wasn't even sure he understood it himself. No, scratch that, he _didn't_ understand it himself. That was part of the problem. And as he watched the microscopic changes on Steve's face, the cold stone that had settled in his stomach dropped slightly further down. It was a haunting, empty feeling that crept up his spine. Steve would probably understand the concept, but not the feeling - and Bucky silently resigned himself to that.

His eyes dropped to the tabletop as Steve spoke, eyebrows twitching inwards at the thought of the feeling returning - and then drawing further down at it's opposite. Truthfully, Bucky didn't know which one he would prefer. A permanent disconnect where it felt like he was watching someone else's life, or having that disconnect vanish one day and have not only James Barnes' life hit him like a train, but the Winter Soldier's too. He would have to brace himself for both being reality, it was far too soon to tell otherwise.

"Yeah," he sighed wearily, a weak smile ghosting over his lips despite everything. "It's better than nothing." Which is what he had, all things considered. "What little I have _back_ ," there was a growing edge to his voice, a low growl that threatened to turn into a snarl. "It's _mine_ to keep. And I will tear the head off _anyone_ who tries to take it from me _again_." There was a dark, determined expression on his face as he glared at the table so hard it could've caught on fire. It wasn't Bucky Barnes at all there at that moment, that was all Winter Soldier - but right now he just didn't care.

Grumbling to himself, Bucky ran a hand down his face and rubbed his chin hard before resting his palm on his cheek for a moment. He cleared his throat and finally looked back up at Steve, removing his hand. "There's an inactive dead drop in the city I've been using for the past few… _whatever_ ," he gave a vague and unenthusiastic gesture. "Chinatown, in the alley between Panera Bread and Tony Cheng's. A black, armoured, code-locked dumpster. The one with no rollers." He paused, wetting his lips. "Passcode zero-four-zero-seven-one-eight. It's where I've been keeping my… what little I have. My rifle, couple of other guns, roll of cash, spare clothes. " His gaze had drifted down when speaking and he frowned at the tabletop again. "If you could get an agent or…someone, to pick them up for me?"

* * *

One of Steve's hands – the one he was keeping in his lap, out of sight, in any case – slowly curled into a fist when Bucky spoke, up to the point where his nails were digging crescent-shaped indentations into the creases of his palm. But he didn't look away, even though part of him wanted to. It was, in a certain sense, a sort of challenge, set by himself, for himself. He looked at the other as he listened to his voice lower into almost a growl, becoming sinister and terrifying right in front of Steve's eyes. The blond was forcefully reminded of their previous two encounters, and it made an inexplicable feeling rise into his throat and constrict it till he was sure he couldn't swallow, let alone speak. The assassin on the overpass – Bucky without the mask – the helicarrier – the fall into the river. Steve wished he could forget about it. It wasn't Bucky he was afraid of; he hadn't been afraid of the assassin even before his identity had been compromised, Steve had always had far too little concern for his own life to have time to fear for it in fights. But the idea of coming face to face with the best friend he had once let die, only for it to instantly dawn on him that he may not have gotten him back at all, that he may just have to watch him spiral out of reach, out of sight, yet again, Steve's hands bound, too weak, too helpless to help him – _**that**_ was more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced.

He only relaxed when he realized how close he was to breaking skin, drawing blood from his own palm; he opened his hand, stretching his fingers, allowing his shoulders to slump slightly. But he kept looking at Bucky, and when the other met his gaze, Steve simply nodded, and thought, _this is what we are now. I'll take what I can get._ Because, honestly, he wasn't altogether far from agreeing with the sentiment – he would've liked to do worse things to the people who'd taken from Bucky what was rightfully his.

Loosening his posture even further, Steve listened to Bucky's request in silence, waiting till he glanced up from the tabletop to nod to him again, before something grabbed his attention. Brows furrowing, he opened his mouth to speak – but at that precise second, his phone gave a buzz, and it was so unexpected, he gave a start, catching after it eagerly, hoping for news on Natasha. As he read the text message, his lips curled into a delighted smile – it was better than what he'd expected. "It's from _her_ ," he announced, looking up at his early morning companion. "She's asking if she has slept seventy years, or we're still alive so that she can kill us for getting her in the crossfire." Admittedly, his smile was fairly guilty – Natasha had a point – but he was simply too happy to get proof that she was well enough to poke at him like that.

Once again dropping the phone back to the table, now feeling more at ease than at any point previously throughout this morning, he allowed his mind to return to what he had been preoccupied with before the text had arrived. "Yeah, I'll get your stuff, but… that number – your passcode," he said, repeating it in his mind to confirm to himself. Europeans wrote dates in a different order, didn't they? And if that was how Bucky had been thinking at the time, then that meant, as odd as that thought was, considering the circumstances… "Isn't that _my birthday?_ "

* * *

Once upon a time, his memories told him, it was so easy to read Steve's face and tell what he was thinking. He was awful at telling lies and keeping secrets, especially from Bucky - not _him_ though, but the young boy with the confident smirk and misplaced arrogance. The Bucky from the mangled and jumbled up memories, torn and jagged and hard to see at times but _consistent_. He knew how to read Steve like an open book, could almost tell what the man was thinking at any given time simply by taking a look at his face. But now…now he wasn't quite sure where to begin.

The ability came in fits and starts, when an expression seemed to fit one that he'd remembered it just came naturally. Now was not one of those times, and as Bucky scanned the man's features for any kind of recognition all he ended up with was nothing. Just a blank, hollow feeling and a regret that ate away at him. It drove him to look down, look away; he couldn't main eye contact when he couldn't focus because his head was screaming at him and telling him that he should remember that face and know that look and all he got was static.

The buzz of the phone barely registered, it simply got a passive stare as the display lit up. Bucky followed it as Steve picked it up, gaze rolling upwards to the man's face as he read the message. At the smile, Bucky gave a curious headtilt until clarification was given. While not quite as exuberant as Steve's, Bucky let a smile cross his features at the news. "Heh, I think I owe her an apology…or…twelve." He paused and frowned in thought for a moment before shrugging. "Figure I owe you a few as well."

It was a throwaway comment, the ghost of the smile still lingering. But at the mention of his passcode, the smile dropped completely. He blinked at Steve a few times, mouth opening and then closing as he tried to figure out how to reply. "Your…birthday? I don't…oh." Realisation hit him like a truck and he stilled, the colour draining from his face as the memories surrounding the code all rushed back at once. "That explains a lot." Even to himself he sounded shaky, his eyes somewhat unfocused and glazed as they stared at the nothing between Steve and the tabletop.

* * *

The way Bucky was continuously avoiding his gaze made something even more painful tighten Steve's chest than when he'd sounded so angry and different a moment previously. He couldn't begin to imagine what could possibly be going through the other's mind, but from the momentary glances he managed to catch, he was relatively sure he detected pain, and he was left wondering fruitlessly, what it could have been that Bucky had seen on _his_ face.

"You know, there's nothing you _have to_ be now, right?" The sentence was out his mouth before he could have decently thought it through, what it was that he was trying to say. All he knew was that he would have given anything for the other not to be in pain, after everything that had happened; anything to not cause him pain even inadvertently. And honestly, perhaps it was just guilt speaking, and it had nothing to do with him at all, but still if he had any sort of power to alleviate it, he was going to use it. "I mean…"

He fell silent again, wondering if he really did have a good way to word this. It had little to do with what they'd just been talking about, and a part of him was wary that Bucky was just going to blow him off, deeming it insignificant in order to pretent it really is. This time, it was him who stared resolutely at the tabletop instead of catching his friend's gaze. "Whatever it is that you want to look for… I wanna help you, if I can. But I'm never gonna tell you what you _should_ look for. That'll always be up to you. It's a fact that there's a history I remember, there's no point to denying that, but I don't want that to be an obligation." Was he even making sense? Well, even if he wasn't, this was as clear as he was going to get, just short of saying plainly, _it doesn't matter if you'll never be who you used to be; I'm just glad you're here_.

And he really was – because, even if it remained unsaid since yesterday night, when both of them had been too tired to even put a coherent sentence together, it did seem like Bucky had decided to stay; what with asking Steve to keep his presence more or less a secret for a while, asking him to get his weapons from where he'd hidden them – if he had wanted to just disappear again, he wouldn't have told Steve about that safe place, right? He would have just gone and taken the stuff himself and vanished. But he was still sitting in Steve's kitchen, wading through a mountain of difficult subjects valiantly, the remainders of their coffee slowly going cold.

He swallowed, concluding his thoughts a little shakily. He could guess what he wanted to apologize about, and he just didn't want to hear it. "You don't owe me anything, Bucky." Finally, he looked up, wondering what he might find on the other's face this time. There was a part of him that was frightened stiff – for nothing else than the sheer fact that he hadn't trusted anyone with this kind of raw honesty since – well, since Bucky had fallen off that train in the Alps. It was only fitting that it would be Bucky again who was the only one privy to Steve's unfiltered thoughts, but he was still not used to it, not anymore. In a certain sense, he was making himself vulnerable, and even if he had faith that the other wouldn't want to do it anymore, the fact still stood that Bucky was very much capable of finding his weak points and breaking him methodically.

In a feeble attempt to avoid facing the consequences of his previous words, he decided to concentrate on the last thing Bucky had said, not so subtly steering the conversation back to the previous course. "What does that explain?"

* * *

In the time since the incident on the helicarrier, Bucky had managed to numb himself to being blindsided. He had built up such strong fortifications around himself that nothing had been able to surprise him - he was always at least one step ahead, even when he was losing the will to keep running. But those fortification had meant nothing in the past day, they now lay in tatters around him and he was left feeling more exposed than a nerve. His foundation had never been the most stable but his footing had been secure. But then Steve had turned up in the last place he was expected to be and everything pitched sideways.

And he kept doing it.

Mentally, everything screeched to a halt as soon as the man spoke. Bucky's train of thought derailed so fast he was left going back over the exact words that had been spoken. He ran them over and over, breaking them apart and trying to figure out _what they meant_ without asking Steve to clarify - if simply because it sounded like it came out on instinct alone. It was a mixture of curiosity and minor confusion that made Bucky linger on Steve's face as the man continued.

The wheels of comprehension fought to find traction as he listened, absolutely silent and absolutely focused. There was something very familiar about the long-winded way that Steve was saying something very simple and an idle part of his brain supplied that he normally did that for things that mattered. That thought made something in his chest squeeze simply because the topic of Steve's babble was Bucky himself. Until that moment, it was only a passing curiosity at how much the other had invested, but now it was yet another thing that blindsided him.

His eyebrows pulled down in thought and he let his gaze drop again, still not quite getting any of it but not willing to fight against it. As he looked back on that initial confrontation back at the safe house, the more he realised that the will to run - the drive to keep ahead of anyone pursuing him - vanished the moment he realised it was Steve Rogers in front of him. And as he sat opposite him, he concluded that the urge to flee, to vanish and become a ghost again, was all but gone.

He huffed out a light laugh, barely there. "You tellin' me to 'just be myself', Rogers?" There was a hint of teasing in his voice and tugging the very edge of his lips into a smile he wasn't even sure he remembered how to make until that point. "Kinda difficult to do that when I'm not sure who I am at the moment but…" he he paused, wetting his lips and nodding slowly - mostly to himself. "We can work on that, I think."

He relaxed slightly, sliding down the chair a fraction until he could lean back without ending up ramrod straight. He slouched against the chair back, chewing on his cheek. "And for the record, yeah…yeah I _do_ owe you. But that's something else we can work on." He let out a heavy sigh, sliding his hands off the table and into his lap, watching as metal fingers massaged the palm of their flesh opposite. "As for what the passcode-birthdate thing explains…" he pulled a face, torn between telling Steve the ugly truth and brushing him off altogether. Neither sounded appealing. "Are you absolutely sure you want to know? It's not exactly a breakfast topic."

* * *

Of course, Bucky couldn't be deterred quite that easily – what had Steve been expecting, anyway? When he looked up and caught the other staring at him, he could barely resist smiling to himself. No, he definitely would have to own up to what he had said – but it wasn't such a hard task, was it? After all, he had meant every word he said, and even if Bucky only remembered a few things about him, he definitely knew that Steve was not the kind of person to back out from something he meant wholeheartedly.

He had to wonder for a few moments if the other was playing dumb for the sake of playing it off; that was something he actually _would_ have expected of him, but he still had a feeling that it wasn't the case. Bucky had never been very good with honest, straightforward feelings; _sentimental sap_ , he'd always thought, but he looked more confused than annoyed or exasperated this time, and Steve idly thought at the back of his mind that _emotions_ , as a whole, might have become difficult for him to understand. It wasn't a very nice prospect, but it was something Steve could understand.

He let out a low, almost inaudible sigh when Bucky said they could _'work on it'_. That was quite possibly the best kind of response he could have said, and coupled with how he was smiling, even if it was barely noticeable, as Steve looked up precisely at that moment, he felt like his heart was skipping several beats at once. It _changed_ the other's face. Steve thought that, for a split second, he saw something (or someone) long lost and forgotten shine through, but it was gone faster than even he could have registered, and all it left behind was a sense of newfound _hope_ (what for, Steve wasn't sure) that the blond couldn't have chased away even if he wanted to. "Yeah," he said, challenging Bucky's words in a tone of voice that reflected the teasing he'd just received, but also a streak of stubbornness that was almost a trademark to him, "yeah, that's _exactly_ what I meant."

Truthfully, he hadn't meant more than _be who you want to be_ , when he'd said _be yourself_ , and even if Bucky chose to make fun of it, he knew that the other understood. It was there in the way he looked back at Steve.

He wasn't entirely happy about the other's proclamation of owing him, but he supposed that couldn't be helped. He didn't think Bucky had anything to apologize for, but he wasn't going to tell him not to – if he needed forgiveness, Steve could give that, too. Instead, he let the topic drop, and concentrated on the last part of their conversation, his curiosity now piqued. With a slight smile, he raised his mug to his mouth and drained the last few drops of his coffee, then set it down. "I'm done with breakfast." Perhaps originally he'd only asked to divert the topic, but now he was curious. Maybe he was going to regret it, but the fact stood.

* * *

There was a massive chunk of Bucky that had wished Steve had let the topic drop, that he'd taken the hint that perhaps the conversation they were going to have was going to be heavier than he expected. But then again, there was no way to escape the ugly and brutal truth and Steve was like a terrier - once he'd set his mind to something there was no stopping him. Perhaps it was better that some of the darker things came out first, like ripping off a band aid. Bucky just hoped that it wouldn't set the tone for the day - they were still in a kind of limbo and not twenty-four hours ago they were still a form of stranger to each other. But the word 'friend' was a heavy burden, and it came with a trust that was both solid and fragile at the same time. But if there was one thing that ached in his chest more than anything, it was the thought that he could lose the trust of the man opposite by withholding the truth.

He chewed on his bottom lip, dragging it through his teeth until it hurt as he watched Steve drain his cup. His eyebrows pulled inwards as he tried to summon the resolve to tackle the issue without anyone feeling guilty. However, given that it was already there in the back of _his_ mind that might have been a false start. "Steve I…" he faltered, wetting his lips and trying to ignore the fact that his throat had suddenly gone dry. "You need to know that nothing from the past seventy years is gonna be a pretty story. It's not something to be nostalgic about." _And there is absolutely nothing I am proud of._ Except, perhaps for those times where his sheer stubbornness fractured his programming, even if he was punished for it.

He let out a weary sigh and rested an elbow on the table, leaning his temple against the knuckles as he ran the tip of his metal index finger along the woodgrain, eyes trained on it but not really seeing. "At first I was assigned a code number but at some point when I was frozen they upgraded everything and all the dead drops were personalised - they could tell who was accessin' them by the code they used. I was told to set a six digit number," he shrugged, huffing out an almost-laugh, "I simply gave them the first one that came to mind."

Bucky paused, frowning at the table, his finger now moving in light circles. "It was fine for a little while - no one questioned it. Then some bright spark must've made the connection. That's when the questions started. 'Why _that number_? Do you know anything about _that number_?' Fuckin' idiots." A mirthless chuckle and Bucky rolled his eyes. "Of course I didn't. And of course, they thought I was lying." He sagged, metal shoulder twitching. "Он слишком много знает. _утирать ему_." There was a hint of disgust in his voice, but he kept himself carefully neutral.

Bucky sniffed once, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand before pulling it away and letting his eyes settle on the mechanical joints, watching them idly as he collected his thoughts. "When I was defrosted, they got me to reset the code. They weren't _pleased_ when it was the same. And I still had no idea why; it was just a _number_ , right? Why was it so _important?"_ He pulled a face, shaking his head. "They tried six times before they gave up. At least I think it was six, that's the amount I can remember anyway. Just another one of those _things_ that the Asset does that can't be broken. An efficient weapon, but not perfect. Faults that couldn't be corrected." Because there was more than one thing that the Soldier did that they didn't understand and couldn't correct, things It didn't even know it was doing or what It was being punished for.

Finally, Bucky looked up at Steve, giving him a weak and hollow smile that was barely there. "See why it makes sense, now?"

* * *

Though none of it showed on the surface as Steve lowered his now empty mug, mentally, he was bracing himself a bit. He had no idea what Bucky was going to talk about, and even if he had a general idea of the things that had happened throughout the past sixty years, while he had been frozen solid in the Arctic, he didn't have any details. He wasn't completely sure why he'd asked, why he hadn't just let the subject drop, as it was clear that that was what Bucky would have preferred. But there was an odd sort of need in Steve, a need to _know_ , more than simple morbid curiosity. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to define it, but it was there. Perhaps it was a need to have a piece of the part of his best friend's life that he had missed, even if said life had been horrid and frightening. Truth had never frightened Steve. _Possibilities_ , they did. And maybe, just maybe, it was the possibility of _trust rebuilt_ that drove him on with this. Could this work like it used to, even if neither of them were the same? He knew he trusted the other with his life; he'd almost died to prove that – but could Bucky trust him again, too? Steve needed to know that; he needed his friend back, even if it was selfish – he didn't need him to be who he used to be, but he needed him to be his friend again. Was that asking for too much? Steve didn't know that either, and unless forced, he wasn't going to ask that particular question.

When Bucky finally spoke, choosing his words carefully, faltering a bit, Steve gave him a wordless frown that said, _how naïve do you think I am?_ Only a moment later did he remember that, even though Bucky knew Steve had been searching for him, he probably wasn't aware of the methods; of the thick pack of papers with Cyrillic all over it that Natasha had 'called in a few favours' for. Steve averted his eyes for a moment. "I've read your files," he admitted, though he wasn't completely sure why this made him feel guilty. Perhaps because it was so evident that Bucky wished he didn't need to know. But that, _that_ would have been naïveté on _his_ part. Of course Steve had needed to know. And honestly, the sheer fact that he hadn't given up on his search for his friend even after he'd learnt of so many things that had been done by his hand should have been answer enough to the question of what Steve thought of it all.

"I don't hold it against you, Bucky." This time, he raised his eyes back to the other again, his gaze steely and sure, expecting at least a look of incredulity. "You can call me stupid for it, or naïve, or whatever you like. There will be more than enough people who'll blame you; I'm not gonna stand in line. It's probably selfish of me, but frankly, I don't care. You're my best friend, and from where I stand, you've been through a hell of a lot more crap than anyone I know. You did what you had to to survive, and I'm really damn glad you did."

As he listened to the story he'd asked for – at one point, he had to remind himself, _you asked for this_ – his expression turned from a simple frown into something more painful. He dropped his hands back into his lap so Bucky wouldn't see his fingers curling and uncurling convulsively, as if he was looking for someone (probably long gone at this point) to choke for what had been done to the other. But there was a part of him (a part that made him feel like someone was stepping on his chest till his heart was about to burst) that was _relishing_ this story, even if he had no words to put to it; relishing the sheer fact that there were parts of Bucky nobody could take away from him, even if it was something as small and simple as remembering his best friend's birthday (and not even knowing what it was he was remembering). Part of Steve couldn't help thinking that these little things (whatever the _others_ were; he didn't quite dare ask), these little anchors were what had been holding the other back while he had been teetering on the edge of the precipice of being completely gone; that without these, Steve would have had no hope of ever stirring a memory in him just with his face and long-forgotten words.

"Yeah," he finally said in a much softer tone. "It does make sense." Because, really, what else was there for him to say? _'I'm sorry that happened to you'_? That would have been just plain ridiculous, and it wouldn't have summarized faithfully enough the gaping ache Steve felt when he thought of how futile the wish was to go back and do it all over again, to make sure all of this didn't happen. It had already happened.

But at least they were both here, weren't they?

* * *

The absolute unwavering faith that Steve had in him was astounding and it left Bucky slightly breathless. He wanted to ask the same question that he'd lead off with back in the safe house. He desperately wanted to bark out a _'why_ ', to demand the answer - but he already knew. Steve didn't have to explain. He said everything without saying a word. He'd trusted him enough to sleep next to him and that spoke volumes. The concept made Bucky's chest ache. And of course the man had read his files, that was to be expected. Everything he was, everything that had been done and the weapon he'd become, all captured in reams of seventy years worth of yellow paper. But even he knew that HYDRA didn't keep all their secrets in ink, they didn't keep them on computers - they kept it in people so that secrets would die with them.

"I did say it wasn't really a breakfast topic," he began, muttering past where he'd been absently chewing on his lip without even noticing he'd been doing it. "But then it's not really an easy thing to talk about whatever time of day it is. Or…well," he frowned at the table top, head twitching as he tried to get his thoughts straight. "It's not _hard_ , but it's not _natural_ …if that makes any sense." Because hardly anything of what he was babbling about this morning made much sense in his head. And he was babbling now; like the levee in his head had finally broken and it was all overflowing. For the first time in forever, he was actually having a conversation that wasn't one-sided with a person that made him feel _human_ rather than some puppet to be controlled.

He leaned back on his chair, shoulders slumping as he pulled his hands off the table into his lap. He watched the fingers interlock, listening to the faint whine of the mechanics of the fine movements while never really stopping chewing on his bottom lip. He wasn't entirely sure how to continue; he had questions, but there was no way he'd be able to work out how to word them so they could be answered. "If.." he caught the break in his voice before it happened, brows pulling together. "If there is anything you want to know I can…at least _try_ to answer it." A pause, not much longer than a few heartbeats. "There's only so much you can learn from files."

And it wasn't like Bucky was going anywhere. He'd made up his mind to stay and Steve, from Bucky's perspective at least, seemed happy to let him. The problem wouldn't be the answers though, it'd be the questions. "Uh…just…'member that my head's not —" he cut himself off, shaking his head. With a vague gesture, a hand wave towards his head. "Everything's real fuzzy. It comes and goes." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the wayward strands that refused to cooperate before scrubbing the sleep from his face and pulling in a sharp inhale. "Everything's such a fuckin' mess in here," he said with an edge to his voice, an annoyance in his tone as he tapped on a temple. "'M not quite sure where to start anymore."

* * *

Steve wouldn't have been able to put words to it himself, but he understood what Bucky meant. _Not natural…_ of course it wasn't natural to have a proper two-sided conversation when the last one he'd had was decades ago. However, Steve was glad he also found it not hard; he was glad the other decided to talk to him, to _stay_. He didn't really say it, but it was plenty obvious, from how he was still sitting at Steve's kitchen table even though he'd had plenty of opportunities to just disappear throughout the past minutes, no, _hours_ , not to mention his request for Steve to gather his things for him.

It was the second time Bucky was offering the opportunity to Steve to ask questions, and Steve still wasn't sure what exactly to ask. What was Bucky expecting him to ask, anyway? Things he knew that weren't in the files – why would have Steve been interested in details of the Winter Soldier's career? Did that change anything? It didn't. In Steve's mind, the only reason for him to know those details was if _Bucky_ wanted to talk about them. Which was, in all honesty, highly unlikely, at least here and now. Perhaps, at one point, there was going to be a time when they could share burdens like they had used to, way back when. But this was very far from that time, and Steve wasn't going to poke and prod.

"Don't _you_ have any questions for me?" he asked instead, leaning forward a bit and putting his hands back up on the table. A small ray of light fell across his forearm through the curtains; dawn was slowly turning into morning. Everything Bucky had asked him till this point had been practical to a fault – that couldn't be all that was on his mind. Perhaps he didn't know how to phrase them, but even so, it wasn't like everything was clear and linear in Steve's mind, even if his own memory served him better. They could, in any case, try to sort through the pieces together; once the vertical tower you built of your life collapsed down, why not just scatter the pieces in a square, and build a pyramid instead? Steve's lips quirked into the slightest of smiles at the thought, but he didn't voice it – it sounded a little silly even in his head, though he supposed it had to be the artist vein.

A few moments later, however, his smile waned, and, as if subconsciously mirroring Bucky's actions, he bit down on his own lower lip, silent for a few moments, as if gathering courage for something. "I do – I do have a question. Jut promise you won't punch me for it." He shot another quick smile in the other's direction, to make it clear that he wasn't actually expecting the other to hurt him; it was more of a way for him to say, _I know what I want to say is stupid, but I want to say it anyway, so please put up with me._ He took a deep breath, and the question was out his mouth before he could have changed his mind. "Did you ever resent me?"

He didn't meet Bucky's eyes this time; he wasn't sure he could. He only needed an answer this once, and then he vowed to himself never to bring it up again. Just once, though, he wanted, _needed_ to hear it. Because, the way he saw it (maybe not always, but sometimes for sure, on his most restless nights when everything seemed upside-down and ugly), there were many things to be resented for; wanting so badly to fight in a war he didn't know what they'd pay for, making Bucky follow him and then failing him, letting him fall, thinking he was dead and not going back for him… _Allow him the dignity of his choice_ , Peggy had said, but honestly, would Bucky have made that choice if he had known what it would bring for him? Would _anyone_?

* * *

Steve's response left Bucky somewhat dazed and utterly confused. For so long his life had been nothing but a series of questions directed _at him_. He was always the one that had to answer, everything from how much he remembered to mission reports. When it wasn't a series of commands it was a string of questions. And both were barked orders. Do as your told and speak when spoken to or not at all. Answer quickly. Don't question. But now he was faced with no questions at all and it left him feeling utterly lost. He _expected_ questions, that's why he kept asking. Not getting them was leaving him with little to say and he just ended up feeling awkward.

The question that Steve sent back floored him for a moment and Bucky just ended up staring. His initial reaction was to say no, but he bit it back and swallowed it. The truth, of course, was that he had _too many_ questions - but none of the ability to put them together into anything coherent. Perhaps one day they'd come easier but there was no way that was any time in the near future. A question like that was beyond him and all he could so was sag even further into the chair and absently pick at the hem of the borrowed shirt. "No." It came out flat and unemotional, like an automated response. "No questions." It wasn't a complete lie but it was all he could say right now.

Without really thinking, his right hand had travelled towards his left shoulder, fingers massaging and rubbing where metal met with scarred flesh. He was falling back on habits to fill the silences, where once fingers rubbed a shoulder that had been dislocated at one point they now rubbed the only part of that shoulder he could feel. Ironic how things turned out. And his fingers stilled as Steve spoke again, eyes flicking up to catch the smile. Then Steve didn't meet his eyes and Bucky's stomach dropped. He wasn't going to like this question.

' _Not like'_ was an absolute understatement. The question that Steve had posed cut unexpectedly deep and it was all that Bucky could do not to flinch. He ended up simply gaping at the man opposite.

"Why would I resent _you_?" It came out in a breathless rush after a too-long stunned silence. Everything Bucky had ever done - everything that was not forced upon him - was his _choice._ He could have left Steve on the playground; he could have taken the honourable discharge after the events of Austria and Italy; he could have left the shield alone, back on the train in the Alps. But he _didn't_. "Everything I have done. Every choice I made." There was a firmness in his voice, a faint hint of anger and determination at the question. "I made them on my own. I _chose_ to follow you. I may have resented a lot of things, Steve. But you were never one of them." He huffed out a weary sigh and let his gaze drop down where both hands hand come to rest in his lap. "You were the only thing I had…the only thing I _still have._ I couldn't resent you even if I tried."

* * *

No questions. Steve wasn't sure what he could do with that. He was fairly sure it wasn't true, but he was also sure that Bucky wasn't trying to lie to him for some reason – if he didn't want to ask, he wasn't going to make him. Eventually, the questions would come, Steve was sure of that, too, like he was sure of a line of things that he had no proof for, except for his unwavering faith in his best friend that, up till now, had always been proven right. He simply nodded, and watched Bucky massage his shoulder; he was beginning to lose count of how many times he had done that, and it brought forward a new question that _he_ wasn't sure he wanted to ask – just what kind of pain was Bucky constantly in from that _thing_? Steve had yet to see what it looked like where metal met flesh, but he preferred not to imagine. Whatever they had done to Bucky, it could have only been horrible (although, whether it was worse than not having an arm was another point).

When his question was finally out, hanging in the air, Steve fixed his gaze on a nondescript point of the tabletop, his fingers tightening around each other in his lap. The silence stretched between them, just long enough for his subconscious to come up with the worst possible theories; that maybe Bucky was searching for the right way to tell him the answer was _yes_. But then Bucky finally spoke, and the question was shot right back at him, as if it was _incomprehensible_ in itself, and Steve's grip tightened so much, his knuckles went white. How could he possibly answer that? How could he explain that he knew Bucky had made his own decisions, but, with how it all had turned out, he still expected him to realize they had been bad decisions? To regret them in hindsight?

"Maybe because it looks like our life has this running theme of me getting you into the crappiest situations," he finally murmured, forcing himself to unfold his fingers before they went numb. However, he still couldn't bring himself to look up into the other's eyes – there were too many feelings swirling just underneath the surface, and he couldn't risk allowing them to be seen. He swallowed them back, the way he was good at doing it. He wasn't stupid; it wasn't hard to realize that he was projecting his own feelings, his own resentment against himself for every bad thing he felt he was the cause of. Perhaps Bucky understood that, too. There had to be more to their friendship than just sticking to a life of bad decisions for lack of better choices.

Steve raised a hand, and pressed the heel of his hand to one of his eyes, until he saw stars. The blinding pain that shot through his head to accompany it was enough to ease up the knot in his throat in turn. "You're all I have, too," he said, and then, finally, he looked at his friend, a small smile on his lips as he rose from his chair, grabbing his empty mug. "That's why I fought so hard for you. Sheer selfishness. Do you want more coffee?"

* * *

The silence that his answer was greeted with made Bucky's brain itch. He wanted to demand something - anything - in response, but when nothing came all he found he could do was repress the urge to bolt out the door. Was this all the future held; painful, awkward silences and deep wounds? If so, he didn't want it. He swallowed thickly past the growing knot in his throat and dug short, blunt nails into his palm just to feel the dull throb they created. He couldn't remember when the tremor started, the faint shudder that ran through his core; a result of using emotions he'd been detached from for oh, so long. It was overwhelming, exhausting, and the aching silence that droned on just made it worse.

Steve's murmur seemed like a shout in comparison. It's volume was far from loud but it boomed in Bucky's ears and rattled through him. He stilled, fingers relaxing and nails releasing from the depressed crescents in his palm as he processed what the other had just said. But it wasn't really what Steve had _said_ , it was more what he was _not saying_. Bucky's face twitched once before a carefully constructed mask dropped into place. Impassive, unaffected; the calculating, watchful gaze of the Soldier now trained on the Captain opposite. He needed the metaphorical distance it gave him, he needed to consider if Steve was _really_ saying what Bucky thought he was.

That same colourless gaze watched Steve raise his hand and Bucky tilted his head to one side ever-so-slightly at the action and didn't outwardly react to the smile either. Inwardly, however, his fuse was starting to burn. It wasn't very long anymore, his patience was something that had been chipped and eaten away by years of thunder and ice. Even the HYDRA operatives that worked with him knew better than to test the Soldier's temper. His expression darkened minutely at Steve's self-depreciation, the 'selfish' comment simply serving to fan the fire that was fast approaching the powder keg.

The silence of the apartment, the hushed conversation, was shattered in a moment as Bucky stood up suddenly. The chair squealed across the floor and toppled over but he was already moving. Three long strides in a split second took him around the table, only stopping when he was inches away from Steve's face.

"How _dare_ you."

It was a low growl, a threat; dark determination flashing in his eyes as he stared, unblinking at his friend (not so long back, his target). "You are _so_ _smart_ and yet you can be the _densest_ fucker on this damn planet." The mask he'd fixed in place moment before had slipped and the tremor had returned. "I just said there is _absolutely nothing_ I resent you for, and yet you continue to fuckin' devalue that and carry on with your damn _projected_ pity party."

He stepped back and pulled in a long, shaky breath and listened to the faint whine as his arm recalibrated, forcing the fist to unclench that he wasn't even aware had happened in the first place. He brought it up, metal fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeeze his eyes shut. "Don't you understand? If you _hadn't_ been selfish I…" He let his hand drop and he visibly sagged, his eyes fixed on the floor when he reopened them. "I wouldn't be here - and I don't mean standing in your kitchen."

* * *

Steve almost took a step back when he suddenly found Bucky standing inches away from him. What he was seeing in his eyes right now was very little Bucky Barnes, and very much something he didn't _ever_ want to see again, not directed at him anyway. The accusatory words shot at him cut deeper than anything else the other had done in memory; it was a deep-seated ache more painful than being shot by his best friend on the helicarrier. And underneath it all, the knowledge that Bucky was right, that made it all the worse. Peggy had been right, too – they all were. And still, for how smart and whatever else Bucky seemed to think Steve was, he didn't feel any of those things, especially not in this moment.

He turned around, turned his back to his friend, because he couldn't bear to see the look of disappointment in his eyes, and also because the tightness of his throat was so intense now, it would have been impossible to keep his face straight any longer. He _crumpled_ , then and there, palms set on the countertop, the mug set down next to the sink; as if his shoulders were caving in on themselves, like the super-soldier with his broad back was trying to look like the scrawny kid he once had been.

"You really think it's _pity_?" he asked, and his voice was small and cracked. "I'm not trying to _devalue_ anything. Especially not _you_ – I just – "

Maybe it did look like pity from the outside. It was _grief_. Sheer and unadulterated. Perhaps things had a chance now to change for the better, but nothing was going to undo the past years, _decades_. Out of all people, Bucky had to know that the most. "I mourned you," he said. "I mourned you so much it felt like I was going crazy. I'm still human, y'know? Or, at least, I'd like to think I am. But I still had a whole country in my back, thinking I was some sort of a hero, and the one person who could make the distinction between Steve Rogers and Captain America was gone…"

It was really ironic, somewhere, wasn't it? There had been a time when Bucky had called him out on trying so hard to prove himself to the world, trying to be more than who he was. Now, he was telling him to stop feeling sorry for himself. It _burnt_ , like accidentally reaching into a candle. But at the same time, perhaps Bucky was right. Perhaps this simply wasn't the time. He couldn't let himself fall apart when he was the one supposed to pick up the pieces of everything else around them. The truth, plain and raw, was that sometimes, he just _didn't see it_ , at all – didn't see the Captain that everyone seemed to idolize, but didn't see the Steve that Bucky held in such high regards either.

For a moment of silence that he allowed to stretch, he let his gaze become unfocused as he gathered himself. When he spoke again, he sounded much more collected, even if he couldn't make all the emotion vanish from his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky. I'm happy you're here – you know I am. It's just, I need a bit of time, too. To really believe it."

* * *

When Steve turned his back on him, Bucky shrunk backwards instinctively. He pulled himself inwards and put the walls back up. The real reason why Steve had turned away, and the reason why Bucky thought he had were two different things. The idle voice in his head told him this was a mistake, that once a bridge was burned there was no way to repair it. Too much time, too much damage; there was no way to fix this broken friendship and Bucky was a fool for even thinking he could even try. He glanced at the unassuming pile in the corner where he'd dumped his uniform, still filthy from so long on the run and covered in dust from where the building had come down. It wouldn't be hard to vanish again, to just put on the uniform and return to being little more than a ghost. He might not have a choice.

What Steve actually said when he spoke, and what Bucky was expecting him to say couldn't have been more opposite. Every word that Steve said sunk like a stone in his stomach until he began to feel sick. It was an empty-stomach nausea, despite the coffee he'd drunk earlier. A dry feeling, a sinking sensation he just couldn't shake. And the more Steve spoke, the less sure Bucky was on how to respond. For a brief, fleeting moment, he wanted to drag the man around and pull him into a hug - but then the cold feeling of dread at simply being _touched_ chased that thought away promptly. And he wasn't even sure if such a gesture would be wanted anyway.

"I'm sorry, Steve." But he wasn't completely sure what he was apologising for. Perhaps it was simply _everything_. Sorry for being a shit friend, sorry for getting captured, sorry for not taking the honourable discharge, sorry for picking up that shield. Sorry for falling. For coming back, only to hurt him more. For completely misreading Steve moments ago. He was probably misreading him now. It used to be so easy, like reading pages from a book - only now that book had closed and was written in a language he wasn't sure he understood anymore.

If Bucky resented _anything_ , he resented himself.

He backed off further, withdrawing without really realising until he was away from the table and standing near the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area. "If…" he fumbled over the words that he wanted to say, left hand clenching into a fist and releasing in an absent gesture that was almost devoid of conscious input. "If you need me to leave, I will." Because sometimes _time_ and _distance_ was good, at least that's what he had been telling himself these past few months. Though the more he considered losing Steve again the tighter his chest felt and the harder the tremor became to hide. The man opposite wasn't the only one being selfish, but Bucky would give those thoughts up in a heartbeat if it was what Steve needed.

"This is your home, your life." He sounded weak, even to himself. Unsteady, giving ground with every breath. "I wouldn't want to cause… _discomfort_ by bein' here." Because leaving now was always an option, even if it would hurt like hell.

* * *

Steve turned around when Bucky apologized. It was not what he expected, or even _wanted_ to hear – in his eyes, Bucky had done nothing wrong. He had just been trying to tell Steve that he'd always thought following him was a good decision – how could Steve fault him for that, when it was exactly the thing that had always given him the most strength? He may have always had a strong moral compass, to do the right thing, but when it came to actual motivation, not only knowing what the right thing was, but making himself stand up, again and again, to do it, it was Bucky's friendship, his faith in Steve, that had always propelled him forward.

When the other continued, it once again seemed like everything was freezing in him. "What?" he asked, and his voice was just as shaky as Bucky's sounded like. "Leave?" he echoed, as if trying to find an actual meaning to the word, one he could actually grasp. "Were you _listening_ to me?" He made a helpless-looking hand gesture, as if he was physically grasping for the words good enough to convey what he was thinking. "I don't – I don't have a life here, Bucky. I'm great at pretending I do, but…" God, didn't he sound pathetic? Maybe that was what he _was_. He certainly felt like it, and there were still certain voices that wanted him to ask what Bucky even wanted to do with him – but whatever the other's reasoning was, it seemed that he did want to be Steve's friend, and he wasn't going to push that away, not when it was the only thing he could bring himself to truly care about.

"You know, I've always been shitty at taking care of myself, at being on my own – and that's all I've been in this century. It's felt like I'd left something in the forties, something I just couldn't fix, no matter how much I tried. And then it turned out you were alive, and that was the first time, even when you didn't recognize me, that I really wanted to _live_ again."

He was still leaning against the counter, the wooden surface's edge pressing into his hip; both his hands curled into that edge, gripping down hard enough so that he could have cracked it if he increased the strength of it just a bit more. But this time, as if hoping it would finally get his meaning through to the other, he didn't take his eyes off of Bucky. He didn't think he had ever been this honest to anyone in this century, and he was _terrified_ , as if he'd taken his heart out of his chest and offered it up – for the taking, or for stabbing through it. And somewhere, it made him angry that he had to be so scared in front of the man who he still claimed was his best friend – but either way, he'd always been good at fighting what scared him, they both were, and there was no way in Hell he was going to give up on it, not when there was so much to salvage. If Bucky wanted to leave, he would have let him. But he _didn't_ , and for the first time, Steve was sure of that; from the fact that he could have done so many times, but was still standing there, next to the counter in the other end of the kitchen, from how his voice shook (almost unnoticeably, but still) when he offered to go – for Steve's sake, not his own.

"I didn't want to say any of this because – 'cause I thought you had the right to decide _you_ were better off without me, without me influencing that decision. But this is the truth; _I'm_ not. I'm definitely not better off. So if you _want_ to stay, then…" He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. "Then _please_ stay. I – I'm obviously not the best at this, but one thing's damn sure: I'll always have your back. And I really want you to have mine."

* * *

Listening and understanding were two different things. Bucky was listening well enough, but what he was hearing wasn't what was being said. Somewhere down the line it'd become twisted, lost in translation even though they were both speaking the same language. Understanding the meaning, the sentiment, the emotion behind the words - it was all skills that he'd not had to use for so long. It was something that had been forcefully denied him when they ripped him out to create a killing machine. And it was that misunderstanding, that misreading what was right in front of him, which caused him to wish he'd kept his mouth shut. Every time he opened it, the wrong thing came out and they ended up talking in circles.

But he was listening now. And, more importantly, he was _understanding_ now. It had taken him long enough but in the end it came down to simple, brutal honesty. He couldn't deal with dancing around subjects, not with his head filled with fog and static and memories that would lose focus if he thought on them too hard. He didn't need vague, he needed direction - clean, simple, honesty that didn't leave any room for maybe. He could make his own decisions, but he needed a solid foundation for it. Anything else and the urge to run away or lash out from confusion became the default.

Steve was being honest now and it came with a pain that was both familiar and new at the same time. Familiar because before the war they'd existed on the kind of trust that was bred from honesty - neither of them could lie to the other, omit the truth, perhaps, but not outright lie - not unless it was a lie they both needed (and wished were truth). And it was new because it was admissions that Bucky never wanted to hear. He'd convinced himself, over the past few months, that Steve had a new life and new friends - that he wasn't needed in that. That he was just a relic that wasn't wanted. And yet there was the man in question, standing there telling him the opposite.

Bucky couldn't quite hold eye contact, no matter how hard he tried. He didn't want to stand around either. He was fighting the urge to pace something wicked, to clear himself of some of the fog in his head. But he refrained from that; he simply stood mutely, chewing on his bottom lip as he digested what had just been said.

Eventually he took a deep, steadying breath. He couldn't quite say he'd worked out the words to say, but he'd decided that he was confident enough to say them without fumbling. "Long time ago I made your Ma a promise." It seemed easier in his head, but he forced himself to continue. "I broke that one. Fucked it up. Badly." And oh, how Sarah'd have his hide for it. "So…I'm gonna make _you_ one. All neat and shiny and newly minted." He offered Steve a weak smile that was barely there, taking a deep breath and standing not quite as hunched and small as he'd subconsciously tried to make himself.

"I promise you that if you ever need me, I'm there. I'll stay as long as you want me to an' I will leave in a heartbeat if you ask." It was all he could do to keep himself steady, to maintain the eye contact he held despite the strong urge to look away. "'M your friend, Steve. I'll always look out for you, but only if you want me to. Neither of us are what we were, we both know we're not the same. Wouldn't want to be either, really." Minor lie, Bucky didn't want to be the Winter Soldier any more than he'd wanted to go to war in the first place but it wasn't something he could change. "But I…I'm not…" And that's where he fumbled, looking away and grimacing as he tried to get his thoughts in line enough to continue. "M'head is full of fuck. I'm…a work in progress." Another grimace at the phrase, making himself sound as if he wasn't even human (which, to be fair, he wasn't even sure he was anymore). "Just please… _please_ stop mourning someone who's standin' right in front of you."

* * *

There had been a time, well in the past now, when Steve had been able to have a very strong guess on what Bucky was thinking, just from the expressions he was making. Bucky had been kind of an expressive thinker – he may not have realized it, but, for someone who knew him as well as Steve had, it was almost obvious. Now, there was almost none of that left. Steve hadn't expected there to be, but when he found himself looking intently at Bucky (though at the same time trying to make sure it didn't look so intent from the outside; that was how he'd always watched him), only to realize there was next to nothing to see, it left an empty feeling after it. He could see that the other was paying attention now (and he could only hope he would _understand_ , too), and he was thinking hard, but nothing beyond that. It made Steve feel even more anxious than he had previously been; there was no telling where this conversation would go next.

When Bucky finally opened his mouth to speak, it was Steve's time to go completely still. He was still leaning against the counter, the heels of his hands on top of it next to his hips; his fingers once again gripped down on the edge, as if he had to steady himself for whatever he was going to hear. Of course, he had assumed that Bucky didn't want to leave – but, like all assumptions, it wasn't failsafe; what if he was wrong? Either way, the knot in his stomach was not going to ease up until he heard him out, and he was determined to do just that.

 _I made your Ma a promise._ Steve's throat was so dry all of a sudden, if he'd had to reply something in this moment, he wouldn't have been able to. It was all he could do to not make a sound; it would have been impossible to keep his eyes from clouding over with emotion. He wasn't even completely sure _why_ – he was grasping for straws, really, even the smallest things counted right now – but the sheer fact that Bucky remembered Sarah Rogers, that he remembered that promise he'd made her so long ago, before she had died… It meant the _world_. It meant so much that, in comparison, he didn't even really mind how Bucky was talking about the fact that he'd broken it. _You didn't_ , Steve thought to himself, but didn't say anything, _you didn't do anything wrong when you were given the choice to do the right thing_. The corners of his mouth pulled into the slightest of smiles when Bucky offered one of his own, and he still didn't say anything, just listened.

And then Bucky made him a promise, and, in all honesty, the only thought left in Steve's mind was that this was all he could've ever asked for. Before Bucky would have even finished speaking, Steve was nodding frantically, his throat still incredibly tight – but his chest had expanded with a warmth he hadn't felt in a very, very long time.

"I promise," he finally said, when he could find his voice. "We'll figure it out."


End file.
